December 1 - Advent Day 2 - Home

I stumbled upon an Advent Photo-A-Day devotional calendar and though I am not using it to post photos, I am using the themes and recommended scriptures for each day of Advent. I am struck by the difficulty that I am having in this season. My words are not flowing as easily as they usually do but there is something to be said for the silencing of thoughts and words and the heightened attention that is given to observation. I made a commitment to write during Advent, but the thoughts may be jumbled and incoherent - as if written in the darkness while I wait for the return of the muse. Meanwhile...today's theme is home.

In advent, we work and wait and wade through the darkness and that darkness often finds its way into our homes. Though we have access to artificial light with the click of a wall switch or the turn of a small wand, there is something about the darkness that gives us pause. Even when we find our way around in the darkness we cannot actually escape it. We can only become familiar with it. We learn to  manage ourselves under its cover. Unless and until we find a source of light, we are captive to the darkness and it forces us to adjust our vision and our actions. 

How do we shine a light in our homes? 

Perhaps with an advent candle. 

Perhaps with words that illuminate our situation instead of lies that reframe our reality. 

Perhaps with kindnesses extended to loved ones that we ordinarily reserve for strangers or those we deem worthy of our most polite interactions. 

The darkness seeps into our homes and we must sweep every corner and light every dark place with our advent candles for we are not the only ones who wait for the God who comes. We wait in anticipation of rescue but an adversary waits alongside us planting seeds of doubt or worse -  misappropriated expectations - so that when God comes and comes as a child we are let down and no longer trust the God who promised to come. 

We want tradition and are led astray by culture. 

We want justice (American Style) and God comes to provide another vision of justice for all. 

God comes to bring reinforcements for the fight but we forgot to suit up and we forgot to fight.

Fear languishes in the darkness seeking to take our faith away. But the prophet declares that no one shall make them afraid. We will not study war anymore. 

What will it look like to live peaceably with all men? 

What will it look like to hear and live out the fulfillment of the promise? 

When will we see the God who comes? 

Perhaps when we adjust the light in our homes and remember to fear not the dark nor the dangers that lurk therein.

God does not come as another sun or another star. God clothes the light in flesh. There is a spark in each of us that will light the way through this dark time if we make room for it. There is a light that outshines the artificial light of lamps in my home. It is the light that is in me. It is my job to make dark places light with my love and my life. It's not a holiday song, but I feel like singing, "This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine!" Shine while you wait. Shine in the darkness and give the world a glimpse of the Light that is to come!

November 30 Advent Day One - Hope

Advent is the time to light candles and wait for the God who comes. Lately, the darkness has swallowed my words and has numbed my fingers as they seek to write the words that cannot escape from my throat. My words have been washed in darkness but now, slowly, tentatively, they will emerge again and keep me company as I wait for the child to come. Today's theme is Hope.


The darkness is thick and
I cannot see my hands clasped in in front of my face
While I pray in and through the darkness
Waiting and looking for the light to break through like the dawn

These same hands outstretched in worship
Waiting for the God who comes

One hand outstretched
   hand balled up in a clenched fist
   fighting against the dark
   striking at things that cannot be seen
   swinging in the darkness
     praying to connect from my position of power
     praying that I don't hit something unseen that will
        smash my outstretched fist into useless bits
     
The other hand outstretched
      waiting with a painkilling pill
         in the center of my palm
           burning a hole in my hand
             daring me to bring the hand to my mouth
                 and swallow the pill that will kill the pain
                 

Two hands outstretched in the darkness
     one fighting because there is hope
        one outstretched waiting for the replacement
          hoping for some relief

Both hands clasped together
in the posture of prayer
Fighting, waiting, and hoping
For the God who will come

finally free

His fingertips understood her alphabet 

and he read the braille that was her skin 

no words were required 

only the healing that comes from a touch

 a touch that knows that it is also receiving

 as well as giving 

a touch that remembers 

the last time 

and anticipates the next 

his fingertips gently pressing 

along her cheekbone 

her tears washing over his fingernails 

his steady hand remained alongside her jaw

 and his other hand pressed gently 

      on her shoulder 

            reassuring her 

                that he was always there 

                         whether physically present 

                              or not 

he could feel the tension in her 

and he knew to wait 

    he knew to wait 

until the tension rolled 

up from her toes 

through her legs 

around her abdomen 

 into her chest and 

finally came out of her mouth 

in heaving racking sobs 

he had not caused the pain 

but with her in his hands 

he felt it 

he felt all of the pain 

that was coursing through her body 

he could not take it away 

nor did he try 

but 

he did the noble thing 

he shared it 

he neither diminished  

nor denied  

he merely stood 

holding her 

her shelter 

   in this particular storm 

he had promised to protect her 

and here he was 

fulfilling his promise 

finally she was able 

to let it all go 

finally she found a way 

to stop carrying it 

by herself 

finally 

she believed that he loved her 

as he had always promised 

and finally 

she was free to love him back 

A stack of letters

I wrote a stack of letters to her. 

She is a tiny girl with three ponytails with the hair woven neatly into braids clipped on the ends with plastic ducks, bears and hearts. They always match her clothes. Her mother puts the clear plastic balls around the base of the ponytails as a cover to the colorful rubber bands  that hold the evenly distributed hair in place. Her scalp is clean and shows only the light glisten of the blue hair pomade from the small rounded pyramid shaped container. It smells kind of sweet. I think it's called bergamot.  I remember the scent and when it hits me now, I feel comforted like I did when I sat in that hard plastic chair while my mother put those parts and braids in my own hair. 

She is slim and wears pants with elastic in the waist because otherwise, they will fall off of her tiny frame. Her thin feet struggle to carry Mary Janes because they are made for wide little girl feet. Hers are narrow and long. She will grow up being reminded that she has big feet; feet too big for her body. They are actually the perfect feet for her frame. She will figure that out eventually. 

She hears that her hair is too nappy and that she should have had hair like her mother instead of like her father. She chose - as if it were scientifically possible - to have her father's slim physique, his hair texture, his smarts and to some extent, his coloring. She did not choose any of her mother's lighter, brighter attributes. She is reminded of it at every opportunity. Each time, the words take a little scrape of her protective skin as if for a strange sort of biopsy. She will develop a thicker skin, but it will take a long time to get there. 

I wrote her a stack of letters.  I wrote a stack of letters in an attempt to thicken that skin. I wrote to her to help her remember herself before she decides that forgetting herself is the most viable option.  It is not easy to repair what is not yet broken but hindsight is a valuable gift. 

I wrote her a stack of letters on handmade paper. Pink paper. The pink paper with the visible fibers. The pink paper which I put in a drawer with a cotton ball soaked in my signature scent. That way, she will know what  I smell like. She will know that the scent is not merely perfume but it is part of her older self. She will be able to taste the scent on the back of her tongue where the scent leaves her nose and travels toward her throat. She will remember me though she has not met me. She will see glimpses of her future self and become something even better! She will hear and read and smell and experience that love that she longs for. She will be swaddled in it. 

I included audio clips for her ears to take in the sound of my voice. I drew pictures and included photos so that she might find herself in her future self.  She will see, taste, smell, hear and touch the future. She will find herself inextricably tied to the love of her older self. She needs that love. That will resolve many of her issues. She will find that there is a kind of love that supersedes everything else in life. she will learn how to experience love and also to give love. She will teach others how to love as well. She will become the model for loving and for love itself. That's what the world needs and she will be equipped to give it. I love her already. She is here and she is becoming and she is loved. She is loved in ways that cannot be described just yet. She is already being perfected in love. Love of self. Love of others. Love of life!!

I love her enough to tell her about herself so that she can become more of herself. That’s love. 

In my room (part 1 - I guess)

I wrote this a while back and I think this may be a reference to the same child so you may need to read Motherless child to get to know her before you read the tale below...until there's a book, there's the blog...

I walk over to the industrial sized window and see the sprawling green lawn interrupted by the path of red bricks leading from the sidewalk to the front door. The flag is undisturbed in the still air. It lays limp against the pole as if the concrete in the base of the flagpole has seeped up the pole and into the fabric of the flag itself, rendering it motionless. The sun is on the other side of the building now and the glow replaces the glare as it does every day around this time. I am in my room with the two of them once again.

One is a quiet child. The often averted eyes are propped wide open and drink in every word of the day's lesson. This child will often have or offer the correct answer to a question even when there is no “right” answer and occasionally when there is no question. This child is tender of heart and embarassingly generous. She shares what she has with anyone and often with everyone -  sometimes giving more than what seems possible or even reasonable.  Her math is such that after long division she always has a remainder for herself and the portions need not be evenly divided. Her kindness is offered to all but finds those in need most intuitively and quickly. 

Today, she is sitting quietly in this room. She has not spoken in days. She completes her work and her body is present but her soul is not with us. Her eyes do not sparkle today and her round cheeks wait patiently for a smile's lift. Though she has given many, she has none leftover for today. She imagines the special power of invisibility. I saw her and she knew it because she knows that I have special powers too. I smiled at her and when she tried to return the smile her eyes curved downward into tiny crescents and the tears began to fall.

The tears poured from her vacant little eyes and soon her cheeks were soaked and her nose began to run and her breathing became increasingly difficult and she must have forgotten for just a moment that anyone - that someone was watching. I picked her up and wrapped my arms around her small body and her little girl legs dangled in the air and her shiny black shoes rested at the hem of my skirt. Her tiny limbs encircled my neck and her hands clasped together and she held on for dear life. With her face in my neck and her tiny grief-stricken body in my arms, she retreated into this safe space. 

She knew that her tiny patent leather shoes could fall to the ground and her feet would not be soiled because I would not drop her. She knew that she was being held by someone who would not let go even after the embrace had ended. She wept and her tears streamed down my back and soaked into my shoulder and her sweet sticky snot and slobber pooled on my neck and strangely bonded her to me in globs of mucus - the stuff of life. She wept until she was too tired to cry anymore. Drained by this wave of grief, she relaxed in my arms and her breathing was less ragged and labored. With one last halting and heaving breath,  she lifted her face from my neck and after releasing one reddened hand from the life grip of the other, she attempted to wipe her face. 

I leaned over my desk and lifted the box of tissues until it was within her reach. She pulled one tissue from the box and when she had drenched every fiber in that tissue, she pulled another from the box and continued to wipe her face and blow her nose and clean her mouth until she had dried off her red, puffy face. She then pulled two more tissues and blotted and wiped the residue on my neck. She was hesitant to look at me with her glassy eyes but when she tilted her face, as children often do, to check for my reaction, she found that my face was open and reassuring, loving and accepting. I offered no rush to return to what we called normal and the safe space that she had found had not morphed into a trap which would press her to hurry up and get back to normal.

 I put my hand on her head, covering her tightly braided pigtail and her left ear and pulled her into my chest so that she could hear my heart beat. I managed to sit on the edge of the desk and pulled her little girl legs across my lap and cradled her in my arms and begged my heart to beat for her until hers would slow to a normal pace again. I begged my lungs to breathe for her  until she found her inhale and exhale rhythm again. I cradled her with one arm and shielded her with the other. I whispered a prayer over her and waited until she was ready to re-enter the wait for the next wave. 

Even she knew at this tender age, that grief was not a one time visitor. She now knew that I would be there to welcome it and to sit with her as she hosted grief's painful stay.

(to be continued)
Reverendsister's Ink (c) 2014 

A story - Part 2

Continuation of a story - part one...

I laid there grateful for the dirt floor that effortlessly supported my weight. She wrapped each of my feet in a warm dry towel and then reached into a small brown bowl that looked like a hewn out coconut shell and retrieved a tiny pair of scissors. The golden bird shape on the handle reminded me that these were her embroidery scissors and though they were dainty and beautiful, they were also incredibly sharp. She slid one blade under my pants leg and with one swift motion, sliced the fabric from my ankle to my hip - revealing the bruises and scars that my legs had acquired this time. Tree branches and brush had not only snagged the fabric but also grabbed at my flesh, revealing small red dashes and dots that looked like morse code screaming SOS from the surface of my skin. 

I was glad to feel the cool air of the room grazing my skin. I could not see what she was doing but I felt the warm poultice that she placed on each bruise and scratch and I knew that the healing process was as intense and effective in its work as my adversary was in her process of the elimination of me. She repeated the process on my right leg but hesitated when she saw that there was a gash just above my right knee. I had heard the arrows whizzing past my ears and was able to avoid them but this one came unexpectedly and though it seemed to merely graze my leg, it actually tore a chunk of flesh from me. 

I remember when it happened. I felt the heat of the pierce and when I looked down, I saw that it had not lodged in my leg and so I assumed that it had only nicked me. It wasn't until later that I realized that the wound was so deep. The fabric of my pants and the thick weave of my socks had absorbed the blood that gushed and clotted, so I did not stop to notice or tend to the wound. I heard her weight shift as she reached back into the coconut shell for a scrap of fabric that looked like a large teabag. At some point, she must have brought a basin of water and a towel into the room because I heard the trickle of water into a shallow container as she squeezed the water out of the towel that she used to wash the wound. It frightened me that I felt nothing as she touched my raw muscle with the cloth. She washed around the wound and carefully cleaned the damaged tissue before affixing the small tea bag looking thing over the wound.  She applied the same paste over the entire surface of the fabric and onto the skin around it. She held her hands over the area and whispered something I could not understand and as the paste dried instantly, there was a moment  that felt like she had applied open fire to the wound but as quickly as it registered, it passed and a warming sensation radiated from what had once been an open flesh wound. I knew that it would not take long for this broken flesh to repair itself and return to its original state. She whizzed the small golden hummingbird beak across the rest of the fabric with a deft hand and was able to remove the rest of the fabric from my hips and waist. She quickly assessed for damage and finding none, covered my legs in a soft blanket while she prepared for the next steps. 

Although my eyes were closed with the weight of fatigue, I determined that she was praying and things were brewing and healing. I felt her hands on my belly and I felt the inside parts joining themselves together and healing again. I felt things repairing themselves. I felt my heart pushing against my chest cavity as if it might explode right out of my body. My heart began to race as the blood rushed to heal the injured parts. I never noticed that what I thought was sweat collecting on my back was actually blood. I had scratched out a whole chunk of skin when I fell from the tree branch that held me but for a moment. I saw the ground rushing up towards me and I was able to brace for the impact but not before the branch tore through my clothes and lacerated my skin. I never felt the cold air rushing past the skin that flapped open because I was focused on making it to a safe place. It's funny how the body will compensate for things by distracting you with other things. The blood collected in the shirt and clotted almost instantly, saving me from bleeding out. The strap on my bag held my jacket closed, I guess, while I was making my way to safety.

With her hands on my abdomen, she whispered words that I could not comprehend and then laid her hand on my sweaty forehead again. She gently stroked my hair and let her hand rest on my shoulder where the hair tucked neatly behind my neck. She cradled my neck in her hand for a moment and prayed again and I felt my heartbeat slow to a gentler, less frenetic pace. I felt the cool air of the room blow across my collarbone as she began to unbutton my shirt and expose my skin. I am sure that she could see inside of my torso and chest right through to my heart.  Her hands were cool and steady as they passed over my chest and abdomen searching for internal injuries. She had the ability to find places that were damaged and begin healing them immediately. She had always been able to find the internal bruises in my body and healed them with just a touch of her hand. 

Lying on the floor with a blanket over my bare and battered legs, I heard the sound of water  bubbling and boiling and splashing against the sides of the hot copper kettle. Effortlessly, she rose from her crouched position next to me on the floor and moved into the kitchen to pour the excited water over the loose leaves in the brown cup that resembles a bowl with its wide bottom and generous diameter. I heard the clink of the plate as it rested on top of the cup while the leaves steeped in the hot water. I can already smell the aroma of the tea wafting into the room where I remain motionless on the floor. I felt a blast of what seemed like ice water rushing through my veins and I realized that it was just the chill that accompanied the healing fever. Small beads of sweat gathered again on my forehead and I felt the change in temperature as my warm skin was suddenly cooled by the moisture that attracted the cool air in the room. The sweat began to run down my face and I felt it gathering along my spine as my shirt absorbed the moisture and clung to my back along with the blood that had been clotting all along. I felt the throb of healing's heartbeat in my leg where the patch was securely attached to my skin. I wondered what else she would find as she continued to work on my aching body. I remembered the smell of the woods and just as quickly as the memory tried to stake a claim in my mind, I felt it racing away again and in its place, there were children's songs and nursery rhymes. This is the drift in and out of consciousness...I know it well...

She returns and kneels at my side and I hear her exhale gently and once again, I feel one hand on my abdomen and one on my breastbone. Before she proceeds with the ritual, she examines my abdomen and my arms to check for more severe damage. She must have returned with another bowl of water and another cloth for my face. I feel the cool water and the soft texture of the towel on my face and though I am drifting in and out of consciousness, I manage to press my face into a small smile of gratitude as she wipes the sweat and grime from my face. I am grateful. 

to be continued...

Resolving the Corporeal Contradiction

Yesterday, I was in the sanctuary listening to a sermon that was incredibly powerful in its simplicity. In a sermon entitled "In Practice" (http://1000wallace.org/713787954920), Pastor Callahan explained, or rather reminded us of the physical and spiritual importance of baptism and communion. I am not here to recap much of that...because you just need to watch, listen to, receive, and live the sermon for yourself. I am thinking about a conversation that I had just 24 hours prior about the trauma that the body tends to remember. I live in a body that remembers physical and emotional trauma and from time to time, serves up reminders in the form of incapacitating headaches, insomnia, aches and pains, and various other physical maladies. It's unfortunate because I don't always treat the physical symptoms for what they actually are. I mean, who treats unresolved grief with Advil, right? 

I am fortunate, in that I don't have trouble with movement. I mean, I am not the most graceful and coordinated person on the planet (or in the pew) but I have a pretty good range of motion...for a woman of a certain age! (I get points for still being able to do a pretty good cartwheel and a perfect round-off!) As I listened to the sermon, I heard the screeching sound of brakes and the two thoughts crashed in my mind. The same body that throws toddler hissy fits in the form of insomnia and migraines is the same body that went down into the water as an act of demonstrating my decision to follow the One who had indeed lived, died, and returned with all power in His hands. This corporeal contradiction was wrestling with the thought that these same limbs that reach towards heaven in an act of worship are the same ones that fall limp at my sides when I can't take life's pressures anymore. These same hands that hold the communion wafer and cup are the ones that held my aching head just 24 hours earlier. These same legs that walked down the aisle when I decided to join this particular body of believers at the corner of 10th and Wallace streets are the ones that collapse under the weight of the unresolved grief that they carry from pillar to post every day. These legs that bend at the knee for prayer also bend at the knee when I find myself in fetal position because I cannot navigate the raging waters of the day. 

This morning, I remembered the words of a woman who encouraged me to participate in the dance ministry of the church to which I belonged at the time. I don't think she knew that I have deeply ingrained body issues (which I mask with red lipstick and cute shoes to draw attention away from the middle ground) and I had a hard time relaxing into...well...real time confession, since I just stopped and realized that my shoulders had crept up to my ears in a well known gesture of fear, insecurity and tension, let's just say that I have a hard time relaxing. We would warm up with an unchoreographed time of "just moving in whatever way we felt led". That healed me then and continues to heal me now. I often wonder how it is possible to be such a walking contradiction - literally. Then, I remember to "just move" and I remember that I am not merely the sum of my experiences but I am also made in the image of the Divine. We waited for and celebrated for the One we call Emmanuel - God with us - but sometimes, I forget that God is not only with me but in me. 

When I remember my baptism, I smile and I am encouraged to remember that I have been and continue to be transformed. I remember hearing "take me to the water, take me to the water, take me to the water, to be bap-tized" and I remember the splash of the cool water. I remember the billow of the white robe and I remember wondering if that cap would keep my fresh press and curl intact. I remember my pastor smiling at me as he brushed the droplets from my face with his hand. I remember feeling incredibly loved and welcomed although I had been an active part of the body of believers for my entire life. I remember imagining the sight of angels rejoicing as I came up out of the water and walked into the arms of a deaconess who embraced me in a huge white towel. Even in the midst of the corporeal contradiction, I remember that embrace and I remember that I am always embraced in the cocoon of God's love as shown in the actions of God's people as I live out the strenuous and often painful work of being transformed. 

When I take communion and remember the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world, I also remember that in this, there is an ASSURANCE of pardon and I am encouraged to live as if it is so...because it is so. I feel the wafer dissolve in my mouth and remind myself that not only is God's name safe in my mouth but God must be safe in my mouth and body because I promised to make that the dwelling place when I accept this gift of a broken body.  As the wine passes from the edge of a plastic cup into my mouth and down my throat, I remember that the blood that was shed for me fuels the change. Even when my shell feels weak and inefficient, there is a reminder that what is inside of me will regenerate what is on the outside. This act resolves the corporeal contradiction because when I feel like I cannot...I am reminded that I can. 

When I remember that God is not only with me but in me...I move. I live, I move and I have my being, and when I move, it is an act of worship. Movement is not just an exercise to maintain the physical body that I have been given. In these simple acts of worship, movement is an act of exercising my right to live life abundantly and when I move in worship, I exercise my faith and exorcise the demons. Fear of movement is replaced with fluidity of movement. Every movement is not an act of joy but the nature of movement is that it allows me to be fully where I am in one moment and then, when the body and mind are ready, transform that moment into the next one. This morning, I stretched the tired muscles that did not get the proper rest last night. This morning, as I knelt to pray, I heard the popping and creaking of body parts that have been at work for 44 years. I am not discouraged by this. This morning, as I worship with every movement, every gesture, every keystroke as I type this entry...I am not only exercising the corporeal gift...I am the embodiment of a Christian life...in practice.

Go and do likewise!

Shalom!

Love, Guess Who?

Dear Carla,

I love you. I love your fierceness. You face challenges that many would not be able to withstand upon hearing the very description. You face fear like a Boss (I think that's what the kids say) with no problem. You walk into fire and worry about the burns later. You mourn so many losses and smile and hold people's hands when they go through as if your own heart is not breaking or broken. You love the most dangerous people with a courage that is unsurpassed. You leap where others would backpedal. You stand where others would not dare to walk. You are a formidable woman who has survived so much and who deserves far more than the world can offer you. And yet, you keep on living. What is the secret? How do you keep pressing when there is no strength left in your arms? How do you keep living when life threatens to kill you with your next shallow breath? How do you do this? How do you survive loss like this? How do you find ways to support those who steal from you regularly? How do you have the audacity to look at the phone hoping it will ring when you know with certainty that it will not? How can you wear those hurtful words as if they are just costume jewelry complimenting a well made up face - or should I say a well made up mask?? I mean, most people would call it quits. But you keep coming back even when the demons try to push you out of the picture. They call you to be done and end it all. Yet, you breathe again and live one more day. You are one bad mother fucker baby. I don't think I could do it. And I honor you for even trying. I will keep watching you and I will be here for you. I support you and I love you...hell, I am you!

Love,
Guess Who? ;-)

A story...part one

A story crept into my mind and I am trying to let it out bit by bit:

 I collapsed from pure exhaustion and the kind of weary that can only come from a hard-fought battle. It is not just one isolated fight that has worn me out. It is an ongoing battle and my adversary knows just how to wear me out. I have found the threshold of a place of refuge and I can only collapse here and wait to be found. I must have brushed against the door and made some scratching noise because I hear her - the woman inside - coming to the door. The beautiful woman who opens the door is not shocked to see me lying on the  threshold. She looks out over my body into the distance to assess whether I made it there on my own or if I had been deposited there by another. Seeing no one and no tracks, she leans down and brushes my hair from my face and checks my breathing. It is shallow, ragged, and labored but present. She bends down to lift me off of the threshold and whispers to me. She calls my name and reminds me that I am safe now.

She carries me into her home easily as if the years have not ever diminished her strength and agility. She slides a pillow under my head and stretches my body out on a beautiful Persian rug. I know that I am covered in dirt from battle and I try to protest for fear of getting dirt on her precious rug. She shushes me and I stop protesting because I know that it is useless. She cares for me in ways that I am not able to care for myself. She knows who I am and she knows what I need. She places her hand on my forehead to assess for a fever and finds my skin warm and moist as if a fever has in fact begun to race through my body. She is relieved that my body has made this valiant attempt to heal itself. She closes her eyes for a moment and I know that she is whispering a prayer for my healing. We have done this many times before. She smooths my hair again and smiles at me and although my eyes are closed, I can still feel the warmth from her smile.

She stands up and walks to the kitchen to turn on a pot of water. She has all of the secrets of the earth in that kitchen. There will be a tea that is bitter on the tongue but sweet on the stomach. That tea will be one of the keys to this healing ritual. She returns to me and begins to untie my boots and pull them off of my aching feet. Dirt, blood and debris are caked in the boots but she has no concern for the filth and clumps of earth that fall off as she tends to me. Healing trumps housekeeping in this moment. She pulls my thick hunter's socks down my calves and hesitates when she sees that my feet look gnarled when in fact, they are cramped from dehydration and the potassium depletion that is a result of the battle.  With warm hands, she lifts my left foot into her lap and begins to stretch my foot until the muscles give in to her touch. No longer twisted over onto each other in a death grip, the muscles relax into a position that looks like the Creator's intention. This is always the most painful part and if I had breath, I might scream as the pain sears through my body on the way back to normal. The muscles in my foot seem to remember what they are supposed to do and be and with only a few twinges of confusion that look like a return to the cramped position, my left foot resumes its natural state and now, she will do the same with my right foot. There is no magic to this. She merely restores my feet to their natural state. This is her gift. She restores broken parts of me to their natural state. She reminds me all of the time that there is no magic and no secret to what she does. She is a healer and with her touch, she restores things to a rightful place. Muscles remember to relax in her presence. Bones no longer ache with the burden of stiffness. Hearing becomes sharper because distractions are filtered out. The mind works with greater efficiency now that there is room for every thought and they do not take over the rest of the body. She restores balance and I do not have to do anything but be in her presence. Her healing gift lies in her ability to allow me to just be. My feet know this and are healed and grateful.

grief verification

There's no casket here

But there is searing hot grief

Coursing down my face

Relentless hot rivulets 

leaping from my eyes and

Caucusing under my chin

There's no note 

On funeral parlor stationery

To excuse me from work

Because my loss

Was not carried in a casket

This grief knows

No pall bearers

Only grief bearers

Who loaned hearts

When mine broke

  for the millionth time

I called the wailing women

But the line was busy

With grief for fleshly remains

No time for wailing

Your petty griefs

But

We are sorry they keep you awake

We are sorry they steal your appetite

We are sorry that no one is available

   to take your call right now

But without a casket

We cannot verify your grief

Please try again

Later

Reverendsister's Ink (c) 2014

safety

i live in this

topsy turvy world

where things are never 

what i think they will be

a life lived on a fault line

and it's usually mine

even when it's not

a world where grief

sneaks in and grabs me 

by the throat

and I fall silent 

and cannot catch my breath

a world where

the defense always

seems to rest

never having bothered

with a burden of proof

that this world of mine

is anything other than

the home version

of the most dangerous game

so i long for safety

Reverendsister's Ink ©2014

aches and pains

Some days, the pain is only a 3
Other days, it is a 7
Occasionally, it soars to a 10
but it doesn't last long
It doesn't bruise
But my eyes look tired
My face tells all
My mask is weakened
The pain presses against the mask
Begging it to fall away
Because it's too tight
With pain comes swelling
and inflammation
But no outward signs
So no one knows
To handle me with care
But my body screams
For sweet relief
That never comes
So with each new day
With grace and mercy
With forgiveness and love
Come aches and pains
Unreachable and untouchable
Incurable and Indescribable
The scale goes to 10
Today was a 12

Tired

...of headaches
...of heartaches
...of mis-understandings
...of un-knowings
...of coming up short
    (and not because of my height)
...of bumping my head on that glass
...of not-enough-ness
...of lists that offer insight but no solutions
So, I will sleep
Until I am no longer tired.

Reverendsister's Ink ©2013

Every fail is not epic

I looked at my November blog postings and saw that I had only posted 14 days out of 30. Hmm...that was not the plan. I had planned to write and/or post every day in the month of November. So, by my grading scale, I have not achieved 50% and that, my friends is a failing grade. Professor Jones would return that assignment with a note of "see me about this" written in neat penmanship on the cover page. I looked at the stats and thought..."Ugh, that was an epic fail!" Then I remembered that I do not embrace the term "epic fail" because as an English teacher, I actually know what epic means. My plan to post for 30 days in a row is not any parts of epic. I am not narrating my heroic journey and though I would like to think that my writing is particularly impressive or remarkable, I am realistic. It's good some days and on other days, it's just for my own catharsis. (And I am okay with that!)

So, I'm just posting this to say that I failed in my mission to post every day in the month of November, but that failure to reach the goal was in no way epic. I am going to be kind to myself and resist the use of the term epic for this failure. John Maxwell fans are acquainted with the term "failing forward" and that is what this is. I did not achieve the goal of writing and posting for November 2013 but it's not the end of the world. Advent awaits and I will try again! I will move forward...again and again! Won't you come along for the ride? I hope so! Gotta go refill the kitty so that I will have more to post in the days to come!



Shalom!

My Mother's Smile

There are people in this world, many of them are blood relatives, who know that the wide toothy grin on my face is a direct result of my mother's DNA. When my parents were designing me in their imaginations (and in my mother's belly), they hoped that I would have my mother's (need-no-perm-because-it's-straighter-than-Barbie's) hair (Oh, the damage we suffer as African Americans) and my father's complexion. What I did get was my mother's beautiful, full, warm, welcoming smile. I am glad for that. If people really knew my mother, they would be glad for it too. You see, behind that smile is a razor sharp tongue that makes my full frontal snark seem like a dull plastic spoon by comparison. You need to thank your stars and the God who created them that I only took on her smile and not her mouth. You think you've had your feelings hurt in this lifetime? Child, please! Until you've heard the blood curdling words of my dear mother...you've not truly been cut. Sometimes, I tell her things that happen in my life and I share my part in the conversations. I remember sharing something with her and it was as if she were disappointed in my wanna-be-kind-but-throwing-subtle-shade response. She offered her "what I would have said" response and though I was not the intended recipient, I had to apply pressure to the wound to stop the bleeding! Her response left me weak...but knowing that she meant that thing from the jam between her toes made me laugh even harder. One day, I'm going to embrace my mother's tongue...but first, I may need some kind of liability insurance or something. Perhaps a license to carry such a weapon. Someday, I might write a more academic account of the ways in which African American women often have to use words as protective armor. That is a task that I cannot bear right now because I would hate to know what happened in my mother's life to cause her to need such a weapon. Tonight, I'm just hoping that someone will thank God that they have not been given chapstick and a GPS satellite map to the altar which my mother often presents to those who need to leave a kiss offering. Heh, heh! Go Mom! You've still got it and you're still giving it! (And I'm still scared of it!)

Covered Up

The organ was singing softly with prelude music. I walked up the center aisle and sat three rows from the front on the left side. I looked at the order of worship sheet and closed my eyes to shift my mind from worship in the classroom to worship in the chapel. I heard her feet and felt her presence as she decided that there was enough room for her frame and her bag. I opened my eyes and smiled the, "Sure, you can sit here" smile. She sat next to me on that old wooden pew.  We worshipped side by side as if we had been doing it for a lifetime. She was a tiny woman with a long blonde ponytail and a beautiful black wrap tossed expertly over her shoulders. I was buttoned up in my silk cardigan,  Brooks Brothers tailored oxford shirt and pencil skirt and we could have certainly been a magazine advertisement for all things suburban New Jersey. We looked the part of the seminarians who were second career, full time moms with more hurt and history between us than in the pages of the pentateuch. After service, we went out for coffee and she asked the question as easily as if she had been asking about the weather. 

"So, how bad is it?"

"How bad is what?"

"Whatever it is that you're trying to cover up with your beautiful clothes and perfect smile."

I blinked at her for a moment and tried to decide if I should bother to pretend that I did not know what she was talking about. I opted to go with the truth. 

"It's really bad today. Like make an appointment with the doctor as soon as we leave here bad today."

"Mmmhmm...I could tell."

The expression is "game recognize game" (Ugh...it's grammatically incorrect, but it makes the point perfectly.) She knew that my efforts to look 'normal' were merely a cover up for a deep seated hurt. She knew this because she did the same thing although her pain was a bit different from mine. My unresolved grief had dispersed throughout my body and showed up as clinical depression. Her husband who had promised to love and cherish her did not adorn her with jewels but rather with amethyst and sapphire toned bruises on places which she too, could cover up with wraps, throws, and expensive ensembles that took people's eyes away from the pain and drew them to the trappings. She knew that I was in full "cover up" mode. She honored it and she knew that the safest place to be when you are covering up is with another one who is also running for cover. She and I cloaked and covered ourselves in an attempt to survive the outside world because our insides were in danger of exposure. Internal organs are not designed to operate well outside of the encasing flesh that protects them from the elements while they do what they do...to keep us alive. Likewise, our individual and collective pain was in danger of being exposed to the elements...and to careless people who would quite possibly aggravate our wounds to the point of toxic infection. It's not always the wound that kills you. Sometimes, it's the sepsis that no one anticipated. Sometimes, it's the toxic infection that no one anticipated or countered in time. And so, we cover up. 

We perfect the lining of our eyes with liquid liner. We find the right lipstick that draws attention to our lips but ironically, not to what we are saying. We toss, cut, color or change our hair or put on our finest garb in an attempt to cover up what is clamoring to be seen...and attended with love. We cover it and pray that it will not peek out of the covers lest we have to explain...yet again. We cover the hurt with laughter that we rehearse and force out of our lips. We cover up because we cannot bear the arctic winds that whip across our skin when we are uncovered. We work through it and the beauty of this is that we often find a place where we can safely toss off all of the coverings for just a little while. Our little while was in that coffee shop. We did not have to talk about what was under our respective coverings. We just enjoyed the safety of knowing that we could sit together...just knowing that neither of us was alone or un-known in that moment. We knew that we were both covered by the God who called us and who drew us together. 

My prayers go out to those who are covering themselves today. My prayer is that you will feel God's love covering you as you work your way through this day. My prayer is that when you are ready, the covers will come off like grave clothes and that you will strut boldly in authenticity. My prayer is that we would all remember that it is our privilege to pray for those who are in need of a covering. My prayer is that we would all feel God's love attending us...under the covers...in the places that no one else sees. May your covering be a place of healing and not hiding today. Feel free to go uncovered with trappings and find yourself covered in this prayer for you. "Dear God, please guide me to Your secret place today. I need to abide in Your shadow today. If  Because Your feathers cover me, I shall be safe from all harm today. Thank You for covering me in front and behind. Forgive my meager attempts to cover even as I learn to rest in You. Thank you for being my refuge and my fortress. Amen."

Shalom

The dreamers...

It's hard to be a thinker and a dreamer in such a noisy world sometimes. I have great dreams when I am able to reach that level of sleep where dreams appear. It just doesn't happen often. Some of my most detailed dreams scare me because I also experience deja vu from time to time and so I often fear that what has showed up in a dream will happen in real life someday. It's a little bit unnerving to see something play out in real life when you thought that your mind created it out of the safe nothingness of sleep. It makes me wonder what sleep is really made of and if insomnia is the body's way of protecting me from what is waiting for me in that deep REM sleep. Are there monsters under my bed that want to snatch me in the night time? Could be. Could very well be. But that won't keep me from trying to sleep anyway. Sleep is the dreamer's playground. Sometimes, we are able to find friends and other times, we can only find foes on the playground. But we must return every night in order to find out who will be waiting for us. I live the waking life of a dreamer. What a challenge in a world where others think themselves awake and wield weapons of mass destruction on the dreamers. If only they can keep us from imagining possibilities, they can control us. Or so they think. Come what may, the dreamers will find a way to sleep without slipping into the coma of absentminded busyness where no dreams may come. We shall not die in our dreams though we may die while living them...and that is more comforting than you can imagine. I'd rather die while living my dreams than to die without any dreams at all. I who sleep not, dream still...I believe in the power of dreams and the place where dreams are dreamt. Some dreams deserve life and others deserve death. All night tremors are not harbingers of evil. Some are just a way of finding our footing. A place to dream is my lyceum where I grow in fitness so that I have a way to live while awake, though a real dreamer is most awake when dreaming.

Like a Flower

Like a Flower

Like a delicate
flower, I
Lay open 
to you
like a flower 
to the sun's 
golden rays. 
Waiting for you 
to warm me. 
But like a flower
If you don't
warm me
or shed your light
on me
I'll bloom anyhow
I'll open my petals
And bloom beautifully
If a flower blooms
and no one notices
It blooms anyway
And dies quietly
and like a flower
I bloomed
in your presence
but you failed to notice
So, I'm going to die
just as beautifully
and quietly
Like a flower.

what looks like writing on a sunny day

This morning the sun is shining through my window and her beams bring warmth and a gentle "Good Morning" nudge that causes me to smile before I stretch my legs off of the edge of the bed and allow my feet to hover over the small fuzzy pile that was made when I pushed my socks off last night. I need the sun this morning because the light reminds me of the creation story. God created the light and not only was it good but it was separated from the darkness. Both the light and the dark had names but the record shows that the light was given a grade of "good." Today, the light is good and it brings with it Jaha's images, Ohene's music, Charisse's paintings and pottery, Valerie's poetry, Toby's wisdom and wit and Dre's painting. The artists in my life are bearers of this good light and they make my life brighter.

You see, the nicest thing about embracing one's art is that you find your muse in other finely crafted art. All of the artists in my life inspire me and tune my ear to my own muse. My muse calls me to follow the lead of these artists and to sit in my chair and create with words what has not been seen before. She whispers to me and knows that because the light is in them, the good in them speaks to the good in me and I won't be able to resist the her powerful charm. Yes, I will be charmed and intrigued enough to follow the other artists into the space where we all find ourselves from time to time. We go to the place where we can create something like the Master did...making something and being able to sit back and say, "it is good." We have been blessed with the easier part of the work. God has gifted us and continues to inspire us. God created ex nihlio...because...umm...that's all part of God's awesomeness. Out of nothing, God created everything but out of God's "good" creation, we are inspired to see what has not been seen, to draw what lies behind, to speak what need to be heard, to moan what words cannot truly express. Yes, we who are artists are merely listening to the Master's Voice and creating not out of a void but out of the depth of our existence...as God's creation...able to hear and respond to the call to create.

There is a certain freedom in hearing that Voice. It frees me from judging my creations. If I were creating out of my own self...we would be back to those pitiful clay ashtrays made in elementary school art class. Listening to the Master's Voice gives me room to see what has not been seen and to hear what has not been heard and to express what ears want to hear but what has not yet been expressed. Listening to the Master's Voice evicts those controlling, fearful voices that would tell me all too clearly, "You're crazy. There is nothing remotely good about that!" The Master's Voice silences the critics and releases the muse and waits to tell us (because we don't often believe it right away...if ever) that it is in fact...GOOD!

In the Master's hands and under the direction of the Master's voice,  we are free; free to float in the goodness that is life in the Master's studio. This is a good space. This is an abundant space. This is a space where every tool is available and every resource is at the ready. This is a space that feels lonely sometimes but since we are ever interns and never equal to the Master, we take comfort in knowing that we are never alone. The Master is always watching, helping, and waiting for us to see what we should have learned in the last lesson. What looks like writing on a sunny day is really just a little sample of the goodness that comes from a life of apprenticeship with the Master Artist...and it is GOOD!

Shalom!

Don't ask me if I remember being that age (trigger alert - rape)

So, in case you ignored the title, let me make this as clear as I can...
This piece includes subject matter that might trigger those who are sensitive to allusions to sexual violence candy coated in the phrase "date rape".  If you are one of those wonderful and trigger-able persons, please wait for another post. Thank you!

I know that people mean well when they offer their advice in light of my hyperbolic (and often insincere) complaints about parenting a teenager. Most often, I am chided for being too hard on my charming, gorgeous and age appropriately indolent teenager. When I complain about her music choices or her failure to wash dishes, I am often met with this comment, "Oh, just remember what you were doing at that age!" I know that my friends mean well but charging me to remember what I was doing at that age is of no comfort to me as the mother of a 15 year old.

So, although it feels like it happened several lifetimes ago, I do remember being 15. I remember permed hair and tight jeans. (Well, they were never all that tight because I was so skinny.) I remember walking to school with the boy down the block and I remember learning to drive...by driving to church on Sundays with my dad...unlicensed and without a permit! I remember being the smart black girl who was the poster child for "the good girl." I remember youth choir rehearsal and running to the store between Sunday School and 11:00 service. I remember being not quite black enough with the black kids and I remember having to hide in the closet when my friend's fiercely racist father came home unexpectedly one day when I was there. I remember going to the movies with my friend and meeting those cute boys. I remember giving my phone number to one of them. I remember waiting for the powder blue teen phone to ring and I remember the excitement I felt when he finally called. He was 17 and he had a car and he wanted to take ME to a movie that next weekend.

The week flew by and when the time came, he pulled up to the house in his '17 year old boy fixer upper car'. He came to the door and smiled at my parents and even shook my father's hand. Everything seemed like it would be just fine. A movie and probably a burger and I'd be home before the sun went down. We left the house and hopped in the car and off we went into the next town where the movie theater was located. We chatted throughout the ride and he indicated that he needed to stop home before we went to the movie and he wanted me to meet his mom. Wow! Meeting his mom already? Hmm...this seems like a winner!

He pulled into the gravel driveway, and the crunch of the small black stones announced our arrival. His mother came to the screen door to meet us. She opened the door and welcomed me into her home and we walked quickly through the door to the basement where he spent all of his time. There were no chairs down there, so I sat gingerly on the edge of the twin bed and waited for him to finish what he was doing so that we could get to the movie theater as soon as possible. Then, he walked over to me and just stood there for a moment. The next thing I remember is that my shorts and panties were being pulled down to my ankles and I was flat on my back on this boy's bed. My brain tried to make it make sense but my body was frozen. I was an honor student. I spoke French. I made straight A's. I was skinny and not as cute as the girls with the 'good hair'.  I had braces.  I was the Sunday School Secretary. This could not possibly be happening to me...but it was...and I was the same age that my daughter is now. I remember being in a state of shock as he stood up and walked off to the bathroom. He tossed, "What movie do you want to see?" over his shoulder and I pulled my panties and shorts up and wondered what I was going to say when I returned to my senses and found my voice again.

I said not a word. I just walked up the stairs and opened that screen door again and walked out. I walked out that door and down the stairs and stumbled across the same crunchy gravel that had announced my arrival just a few minutes earlier. I walked down the driveway and continued waling down the block. I walked and walked and walked until I found myself back at my house. I walked past my mother and walked to my room. I picked up the phone and called my best girlfriend. I told her my story and she quickly informed me that no boy would just ever want to take me to a movie just for the sake of going to a movie. Boys didn't spend money on girls without expecting something in return. I should have known that. The conversation ended and oddly enough, life went on. Life as I knew it had come to an abrupt end. I was a 15 year old girl who should have simply known better. I didn't even know that I was allowed to call it rape or how to explain what had happened...because I should have known better. At 15 years old...I just should have known better.

Now, I am the mother of a beautiful girl child who has access to technologies not yet dreamed of when I was her age. The teen phone has been replaced with hand held cell phones with video capabilities. No one is subjected to screening by the gruesome parent on the other end of a house phone. The field on which teens play these days is a virtual one and the effects of 'the game' are far reaching.  Cute boys with loud cars are still cute boys and girls are still expected to know better. So to answer your question, yes, I do remember what I was doing when I was her age and I'll be damned if history will repeat itself. Thank you for your concern. If you are really concerned, then the best help that you can give me as it pertains to raising a girl child is not to ask me if I remember being her age. That's not helpful. The best help that you can give me and her and girls everywhere is to help us dismantle rape culture. We can start by telling all of our children that if we all would just 'do better' then we won't have to tell our hurting children that they should have 'known better'.


Shalom