I thought

I thought

I thought that if I wore Revlon Red lipstick, you could see what I was saying. Instead, my mother told me I looked like a hooker and my aunt passed me a tissue.

I thought that if I studied hard enough and if my grades were good enough I would finally be enough for you. Turns out, I wasn't the teacher's pet.

I thought that if I prayed hard enough, things would get better. Instead, things got harder.

I thought that if I showed you my letter of acceptance from Princeton Seminary or Yale Law School, you would be proud of me. You put your drink on it - and I was pissed because you never used a coaster before.

I thought that if I gave you enough to compensate for what the world took away that you would love me and not leave me. Like a bank robber, you took what I had and left me with my hands tied behind my back.

I thought that you were sincere when you told me that you would make me the envy of every woman in the room just by loving me. You didn't tell me it was because they knew that I was the catch of the day.

I thought that I would never engage in idolatry like those foolish Israelites who were loved so fiercely by God. Then I found myself rushing through prayer to have time to talk to you.

I thought that showing you my scars would entice you to kiss and make them better. You traced them with a sharpie and used them for target practice.

I thought we would grow old together and never get tired. We just got tired of each other.

I thought...I thought...I thought...wrong.

#serendipity

On Sunday, November 4th, I did the unexpected. I left the house for something other than church. (gasp) The talented teen was off with her big sister and dinner had already been cooked the night before (nod to proper southern upbringing) and so, I decided that the Facebook post inviting me (and a billion other Facebook fans and friends) to a poetry event that included the hashtag #serendipity was written just for me. But there was just one problem. I don't leave my house on Sundays - except to go to church. So why was I writing down the address and phone number as if I might actually attend? I always want to go places and do things but I never do! What made me think this time would be different? One little hashtag. #serendipity

I came home from work and had to talk myself out of my skirt and into my jeans. (Yeah, no grand stories of endless wardrobe changes and fashion consultations here. I have sweats, jeans, button down shirts and suits. I make it work.) I ate a few morsels from the pot of smothered turkey wings and with a hair toss and a prayer (and one more dip into that pot), I jumped in the car with the thought...well, if I don't have to call AAA to start this car (like I've had to every day for the past week!), it's meant to be! #serendipity

Driving down I-76 on a Sunday for a non-church activity was my first act of pushing out of my comfort zone. I got there embarrassingly early and sat in a chair and let a total stranger play in my hair. (Second act of pushing out of my comfort zone! Yes it is all mine and Hell NO! You cannot touch it!). By total stranger, I simply mean that we had not met before but, we did introduce ourselves by name before I allowed her fingers to dance in my newly retightened locs...and she had locs, so it was okay...turns out she was the vivacious and charming co-host. I was at home from the moment I walked in the door. #serendipity

The artists were brilliant. The poetry was...beyond description. The venue was perfect and I had the wisdom to share this moment with two girlfriends as a birthday gift to one and as a "congratulations on taking two baby steps" gift to myself. It was the best decision I've made in a long time. I sat in silent appreciation of the entire event but when I go back, I will give and not just receive. Grateful for #serendipity.

What looks like writing on an ordinary day

I must produce every day
I will produce every day
So this is for Monday


This morning the sun is shining through my window and her beams bring Jaha's words, Ohene's music, Charisse's paintings, Valerie's words, Bassey's words, Dre's paintings...and countless others who cannot resist the alluring and compelling song of the Master Muse.

They, in turn, are calling me to follow them to that chair where words flow effortlessly onto the page. They whisper to me and know that i will be charmed and intrigued enough to follow them into the place where we all go from time to time. That place where we create as the Master did...making something and being able to sit back and on a great day, say, it is good. We have the easy work. God has gifted us to do this work. God created ex nihilo. we are just listening and following the Master's Voice.

There is a freedom in hearing that voice. It frees me from judgement. If I were doing it, it would be easy to critique, reject and condemn. Listening to the Master's voice gives me room to just be and to feel the fullness of who I was created to be. Listening to the Master's voice evicts my controlling fearful voices who tell me that the only way to survive is to clutch and cling. In the Master's hands, I am free - not falling - just floating. I love this space. I need more time in this space. I think I will pack my things and stay here for a while.

Can't refuse the Muse

Nov 2012
04 Sun

Last night I put turkey wings in the oven and loved them until the meat fell off the bones. I put all that lovin in a heavy cast iron pot and let it rest. Today, I will let it nestle next to some collard greens and brown rice and I will eat a sliver of the turkey and work the seasoning off of one wing tip and I will be full. I will be full because my food is to do the will of the Mother. In this work, I am satisfied.

This morning, I took the chicken breasts out of the refrigerator and smeared some lovin on them. I warmed the oven to make a cozy environment for them and covered the pan with foil so they could see their beauty reflected back on them as they steeped in the hotbed that I made for them. I rubbed them with seasoning and blanketed them in my magician's cape so that they would emerge in a pan full of gravy and not just regular old drippins. You know, chicken breasts tend to dry out if you don't treat them right. I want them to fulfill their destiny to be all that they can be. When they are done, I will remove the foil from the pan and close my eyes and inhale their scent. It's not like new baby smell - that makes me want to cuddle. It's not like new car smell - I always liked vanillaroma better anyway. No, this is like back when we were colored but we used cast iron pots and pans because it was all we had. It is like when Grandma would make biscuits that were perfectly round because she cut the dough with a floured glass and not a fancy cutter from a specialty store. This is like what Cracker Barrel wants us to think of when we sit in the rocking chair that we won't buy. This is the smell of my mother's kitchen on any given school day. This is another kind of love that I have known and felt. This is the kind of love that can only be generated by the work of certain kinds of hands. There are hands that massage, hands that play instruments, hands that speak in time with our words, hands that heal, hands that harm and there are hands that serve as the Master's hands. The scent of the chicken swathed in gravy is the scent of what we call Grandma's Hands. It's not a lotion. It's not a perfume. It is the smell of love and work and sacrifice and discipline and healing and truly there is nothing as sweet or savory as the smell of Grandma's Hands.

This morning, I read another writer's work. I listened to a musician's song. I studied a painter's painting. These were all acts of invocation. Finally, I sat down to my keyboard and a blank page and let the words flow freely. That was the act of worship. When I wrestle the courage to post it to the blog and publish it - flaws and all - that is the offering.

And this is the benediction -
May the God of all creation be with you until we meet again.
Shalom

I don't know how you do it!

First of all, I cannot believe that I have not posted since July! Please forgive me. I shall do better going forward.

This is an entry I wrote at the beginning of the school year but I just did not feel ready to post it. I'm over it...here goes...

When people really grasp what my week actually looks like in terms of where my time goes, most of them shake their heads and gasp, "I don't know how you do it!"

I respond, "I don't know any other way to do it." There are choices that I have made along the way (which have been judged and forgiven already, so no need to rehash those here) and as a result, this is the life that I am living. This life includes an extremely long commute to a job that requires every ounce of my attention and energy. Some would not survive the commute. Others would not survive the job. The two combined on a daily basis are not child's play. When friends see my 4:30 am postings on Facebook, they whisper the prayer, "I don't know how you do it (and thank God I don't have to)!"

There are sacrifices we all make in the name of something and every yes to one thing is a loud NO to something else. One of the perks of this lifestyle is that it forces me to be crystal clear about my priorities. What things are important enough to take up whatever 'spare' time I may have? To the chagrin of my friends, these times are few and far between and often times, friends will ask (almost begging) me to make 'other arrangements' so that I can spend time with them. What we all forget from time to time as it pertains to other people's lives is that there is a butterfly effect that happens whenever we make a decision or choice. Changing one aspect of the present situation may have a huge and unforeseen impact on all of the pieces in the future.

I must also be a diligent watchdog of my own self-care habits. While it may serve others for me to go out on a Friday or Saturday night, the cost to my body is not worth it. Working to the point of exhaustion on a daily basis will make you reassess what things are worthy of your time. That is not to suggest that my friends are 'not worthy' of my time in some grand scheme of things but those who are my closest friends know that I don't love them any less just because I can't get out to play as often as I'd like.

This, of course leads to another issue that I face more often than I planned. It is very hard to build new relationships with people who think you are always blowing them off. It is a constant challenge to find the time required to love on someone who needs lots of face time. (Someone like a 14 year old girl who looks a lot like both of her parents.) It is also a challenge to find someone who can...well...love and be loved by me when all I know with any certainty is that I have time for deep and meaningful, albeit brief, conversations but that whole dating game looks very different for me. (Talk about priorities! This life will make you realize just how much of a luxury it is to have the TIME to flirt effectively!) I would love to hold hands and stroll in the park gazing into his eyes, but for real, I have papers to grade, lessons to plan, food to cook and laundry to wash. I do not have time for guessing games and the foolishness that passes for dating these days.

Another area of sacrifice is church. Bible study used to be the center of my week. It was a time to see the folks I didn't see except on Sunday and hug a few necks and slip in a few extra prayers with people. Some nights, I don't get off of the train in time to make it to Bible Study and other nights, I carry so much work home that I am not able to spare the 90 minutes that Bible Study asks of my week. The same is true for visiting other churches. I like to hear my colleagues preach and I am grateful for the podcasts and streaming services because some days I do not have the time for the commute, let alone for the service itself! So, I keep my commitments close to home and enjoy my own church family as much as I can on Sundays.

Some would suggest that I need to manage my time a little better. In this world where there's an app for everything, we still have to live our lives one moment at a time whether well planned or not. Everything cannot be farmed out nor should it be and even if I had a personal assistant, unless she could manipulate time itself, even that might not be enough. But I do give thanks for the speech to text software that has blessed my writing life! If only I could dictate dinner into the oven on my way home. Alas, some tasks must be done by hand.

They say, "I don't know how you do it!" Many of these are my overachieving friends whose lives make me wonder the same thing! They pastor and they parent and they spouse (Yes, that's a verb in case you were wondering), they work out, they work late, they coordinate outfits and accessories and shoes and shop at the same time! I don't know how you do it either. We all make choices that we must live with. I love teaching and I always choose school districts where resources are few and needs are great. I know what I'm getting into when I sign the paperwork in the Human Resources department. My reward is not always in the paycheck. Sure, there are days when I want to scream because it seems as if no one sees or notices my grand sacrifices and there are days when I wish that I were coming home to a wonderful husband, a dozen roses and a bubble bath instead of incomplete homework and a kitchen sink full of dishes that says, "a teenager was here!". There are times when I cry out to God and ask, "You couldn't find anybody else to do this?" And I hear the first few words of the answer, "to whom much is given..." and I realize that though my life represents a series of choices, I do these things because I can. I do this because I must. I do this because I have been blessed to be a blessing and as my life plays out, this is what it looks like right now. I may complain about the cost of my commute, but that is a luxury. I complain about my car, but that is a luxury. I complain when the subway is delayed by a whole 5 minutes...luxury! I complain that my clothes do not fit as I'd like them to but I have clothes to wear...clean clothes...nice clothes...LUXURY! I am painfully aware that there are parts of the world in which women still cannot wash clothes because there is no clean water. I am aware that there are parts of the world in which more than one article of clothing is a blessing. I am aware that though I complained about leaving a lovely pair of designer shoes on the train, there are women in the world (many in these United States) who walk barefoot on behalf of their children. These women have no healthcare. These women have none of the benefits which are the subject of my complaints and yet they do it...every day. With them in mind and choices on the table, I do it like people of faith have done it for centuries.

I do it by the grace of God!
So, I am asking those who know about the grace of God to keep me in your prayers!

Shalom!

Forgiveness, Part I

Have you ever had the opportunity to grant someone your forgiveness? How did it feel? How long did it take to get there? What was the price you paid? What did you charge the other person? I'm wondering about these things because I am being stretched and grown in the process of forgiveness. So, let's set the tone, shall we?

As a Christian, I have been taught and I believe, that forgiveness is essential. There are endless quotes and quips about forgiveness but I wonder how much we really know about the art and act of forgiveness. As I walk along my own life's path, I am learning that there are weeds that I have watered which are choking out my ability to really forgive and be free from the bondage of unforgiveness. Jesus tells us to forgive seventy times seven and I may have quoted that in a sermon or two - but what most people (including myself) struggle with is HOW to forgive. Many bible studies have been peppered with questions like - "If you forgive, does that mean you forget?" What I want to know is when will we look at the anatomy of forgiveness? When will we see that the sharp and witty comments that we so easily spew out often speak of a seed of unforgiveness? When that seed meets the egg of our deepest hurt and most vulnerable self, the cells split and the thing grows and now, there's more to this thing than just forgetting what was done to you.

There is a very specific seed that has been planted and nourished in the warm confines of my heart's womb.  The thing that I seek to abort is the lovechild of my divorce and my finances. Thoughtful optimists give me the platitudes and affirmations to put on my mirror and recite to myself every morning but there is a piece of my day to day reality that is missing. What you say to me is, "Oooh, girl. You need to let that go." But then when I can't go out with you because this thing has my money tied up, you shake your head and "help" me concoct ya plan for revenge. I don't need revenge. I need cat-like reflexes to help me move past the anger and resentment and move forward to the healing. I need to not have to open my checkbook to pay for yesterday instead of being able to save for my tomorrow. And that's where the biting sarcasm comes into play.  Oh, I'll write the check and do the right thing, but I reserve the right to be angry, catty, sarcastic, bitter and whatever else I decide along the way. Now, I am sure that Jesus did not have this in mind as he calls us to forgive 70 times 7 but perhaps the 70 times 7 is about weeding out the entitlements. Maybe what the 70 times 7 is really about is the need to catch myself slipping into justifiable and quasi-righteous anger that manifests in my cruel words...which are received with laughter because that's how we treat these things. We laugh and pretend they don't hurt or that the speaker is really just being funny and not expressing something that is a very real part of his or her daily existence. How many times have I stopped to "do the right thing" and said, "See Jesus, I'm doing what you asked me to but this fool is not doing his part and it's not fair." What kind of prayer is that? Well, some days, it's the most honest one I have on the road to deliverance from my own evil.  Do you have any idea how difficult it is to make that paradigm shift from using passive aggressive sarcasm into speaking the truth and praying for God to actually bless the one who harmed me instead of the simple prayer, "Get em, Jesus!"It is very difficult but it is also do-able. Anything is possible if you get out of your own way.

By the grace of God, I am able to maintain a budget that allows me to afford today and yesterday. I can maintain my lovely middle class existence with relative ease. I can still tithe to my church and occasionally treat my colleagues to lunch. However, as my garden continues to grow and bloom, I must be ever vigilant against the weeds that crop up when I am not paying attention. How many is 70 x 7? 490. So, as I see it, I have at least 490 weeds to pull up out of my garden.  Weeds of anger, resentment, bitterness, exhaustion, entitlement, sadness, longing, self-deprecation, violence (physical, spiritual, verbal - shoot, that's at least 250 right there!). As I don my gardening gloves and kneel down to tend to the garden, I am reminded that anyone can do right by someone who has done right by them. It takes a real leap of faith to do right by the one who has somehow earned your harbored unforgiveness. It takes faith to believe that God really does know what to do and is waiting to see if we are trusting enough. We are not called to hold grudges. We are called to hold our hands out to others and to hold our heads up and look to the hills for our strength. It will take me a minute to pray ever so sincerely for God to bless those who have despitefully used me but I must also humbly remember that this was modeled for me in the words, "While you were yet sinners, Christ died for you." I'm not being asked to die. I'm only being asked to forgive...and it won't kill me...but it will take me a minute because forgiveness is that work that always calls for overtime!  But the reward is priceless!

No Shame Day

Today, I'm doing something similar, but different...tread lightly, it's under constant revision...

Please take a moment to visit and support my friend's website http://thesiweproject.org/. She has the courage of a million survivors, the brilliance of a million stars and the love of a million hearts...and she is one in a million! (And I love her!) Because of her courage and professionalism, there is a place for us to gather as a community of fighters and supporters. There is a place where we can be ourselves with no shame. Thank you to all who have helped me along the way and my heart goes out to all who have been touched by mental illness of any form.


No Shame Day

July 2, 2012

My name is Carla Jones and I have no shame.

I am a teacher, preacher, mother, sister, writer, personal chef, caregiver and woman who loves fiercely…and I have no shame about my diagnosis of and struggle with clinical depression.

I was diagnosed with clinical depression more years ago than I care to remember. (Or perhaps I’ve lied about my age for so long that I can no longer do the math accurately.)  When I was a teenager, I had what can graciously be called mood swings but it wasn’t until I found myself crying inconsolably and self-medicating for an undiagnosed illness that I realized that this was not just typical teenage moodiness.

Part of my story includes a memory of relentless and incurable anger coupled with a string of failed relationships. It wasn’t until a failed relationship led me to attempt to overdose on pain medication– which I quickly regretted and attempted to undo by calling 911 and inducing vomiting – that I realized that I was losing the battle. The mandated ‘pre-release from the hospital therapy’ was telling. The unprepared white woman looked at a writing sample and said, “Oh, you’re quite angry aren’t you?” In the moment that I wanted to return home and show her just how angry I was, I realized that if I did not get real help soon, I would destroy either myself or someone else…because I was not merely angry, I was deeply depressed yet still able to finish college and secure a great job and manage my multiple roles. 

I found the right therapist – a compassionate, yet tough black man whose office was in a lovely suburban setting that allowed me the simple pleasures of free parking and a stroll down “Main Street” as part of my therapy. He held my feet to the fire and never wasted my time or copay.  Rather, he asked me what was at the root of all of this anger. He helped me to face the demons of the past and set goals to keep them (the demons) out of my future... or at least at a distance. It would be years before I would seek him out again, only to find that he had moved on but he referred me to another man who would also work to keep me here.

I met Dr. L. when I was in my last year of seminary and the lights grew dim. I was unable to get off of the couch after taking my daughter to daycare. I was a mess but I was able to smile at least one hour of the day, so most of my friends were kept at bay. I was always angry or moved to tears in class or chapel, so my outward expressions did not draw any attention. Until the day I met J. She called me out on my stuff one day and I was shocked. I believe that’s what we mean when we say, “Game recognize Game!” She saw in me what she saw in the mirror. Again, I returned to a regimen of regular therapy sessions and the demon was again held off for a while.

The reason I speak publicly about my illness is that I managed to hide it so well for so long. My friends accepted me for who I was – even if that meant quirky highs and lows.
Even when I pretended that being an only child was the reason why I preferred solitude.
Even when I would weep over things that seemed so insignificant.
I was a single parent.
I held a job while in grad school.
I was the go-to girl who took care of everyone else, so no one suspected anything or if they did, no one dared to say anything, because black folk don’t talk about that stuff…especially those of us who are God fearing, bible thumping, Jesus loving Christians preparing to be someone’s pastor. 
I quietly took medication and continued therapy until we managed to manage the illness for just a little while longer.

Two years ago…the demon returned with brand new superpowers. The darkness crept in like a summer storm. It was unexpected and violent. I put my affairs in order and in a sort of out of body experience, attempted to write the ending to my story. (Thank God for rewrites and edits!)
I survived that storm.
I wrote about that storm.
I bravely blogged that storm and shocked my friends and loved ones.
I did not seek to shock. I sought to educate.
That’s why I write.
I write so that we can stop being shocked and so that we can see the signs and get the needed and available help.
I write and speak about it because if I don’t tell my story, it will appear in some poorly written and largely circumstantial unauthorized posthumous biography.
I tell my story because my story is not unique.
I tell my story so that some little black girl doesn’t spend her life thinking that she is weird or ‘bad’ or just sad.
I tell my story because some people still don’t get it.
I tell my story to keep from cussin' people out when they say, “Cheer up!”
I tell my story because silence almost killed me.
I tell my story for every student who has ever come to me and said, “Miss Jones, I need to talk to you…” 
I tell my story for the woman who wept on my robe after I preached about depression…on “Youth Day.”
I tell my story because it demands telling. 
I tell my story because it is still writing itself.
I tell my story because I have no shame!

My name is Carla Jones and I have NO SHAME! This is my story…