Who knows

Who knows you? Really, who knows you?

Knows your heart, knows your hurts,
knows your quirks, knows your questions,
knows your fears, knows your frustrations,
knows your truth, knows your trials.
Who knows you?

Who knows what you have waited for,
longed for,
prayed for,
run from,
left behind,
managed to gain,
chosen to lose?

Who knows what you gave away, how you got it back, who you passed along the way? Who knows you?

Who knows what you miss,
where you’ve been,
how you’ve felt,
when you’ve lost,
who you’ve loved?

Who knows what you’ve forgotten,
where you changed,
how you think,
when you’ve laughed,
and who makes you cry?

Who knows how broken your heart has been,
how many times you’ve tried to heal,
how much you’ve endured,
how you managed to survive?
Who knows you?

Who knows what you haven’t done,
what you couldn’t say,
what you will not see? Who knows you?

Who knows what you no longer believe, what you know to be true? Who knows you?

Who longs for your presence,
who needs your spirit,
who craves just a moment?

Who wipes the tears you have yet to shed,
who knows when your smile is masking your pain,
who waits for you to pour out your heart?
Who knows you?

Who knows your laugh, expects your humor, enjoys your style, appreciates your candor? Who knows you?

Who knows your goodbye is never final,
who knows that your hugs are always heartfelt?
Who knows that you believe in change, that people can change,
that circumstances can change, that feelings do change?

Who knows how hard you try, how often you pray, how long you hold on, how bruised you are? Who knows why there is no more, how there is too much, why it means so much, why it cannot fail? Who knows you?

Who knows you? Who knows your message, hears your intent, understands your words, stops to think? Who knows what you’re going through, what you fear, what you anticipate, what you cannot bear to experience again? Who knows you?

Who knows

you?

 

This is for Clay

I didn’t think that I would ever do this. I thought that I would keep it all inside and learn to live amongst those who, if they were completely honest, think that my lifestyle is reprehensible. Still, after Clay Aiken took that brave step forward to receive loads of cash to pose with his newborn child and admit what was really the best kept secret in America, that secret being that he is actually, no fooling, gay, how can I selfishly keep silent about my own truth?  That’s why, after 30+ years (or should I say nearly 40, well, over 35 sounds best) I need to share with the world that I am a proud, heterosexual woman.

 

Wow! The weight that is lifted from my man-loving shoulders is huge. It’s my duty, isn’t it, to proclaim my preferences to the masses, and I do so with no shame, with no remorse, regretting only that it’s taken me so long to come out of the massive shoe closet to seek the camaraderie of those like me. And I believe with all of my heart that there are many like me who have chosen to keep silent. I just want them to know, no matter how hard you’ve tried to hide it — Clay was vigilant– you can’t deny how you feel or who you love.

 

I remember when I first knew that… wow, this is hard… that I liked boys. I was 3, and I was sitting on my back porch with Gordy, my next door neighbor, watching our siblings play kickball. They wouldn’t let us play because we were too young, so we sat mischievously (yeah, it can be done), scheming to see how to get in the game. Finally, I took him by the hand, marched out to the center of the yard, turned to face him and kissed him square on the lips. That’s when it all changed, for me. (Probably for him too, as his wife once told me that he used to talk about his time with me fondly before they got married.) But I digress…

 

I knew then that my life would forever be different, that I would be a woman who liked the company of men. I was going to be one of those teenage girls that hung posters of guys like Scott Baio, Sylvester Stallone, New Edition, Sean Connery and Jerry Orbach on my wall (although I did also have a picture of George Michael on my wall…). I was going to see movies like Be Cool just for a glimpse at The Rock, and buy the New Kids on the Block CD because the guys were hot (well all of them except that weird looking one). I would buy Meet Joe Black because Brad Pitt looks great in a tuxedo, or watch Mo’ Better Blues over and over again just to see Denzel play that have mercy trumpet.

 

Oh sure, I didn’t flaunt my heterosexual tendencies. I played women’s basketball and actually was quite fond of the menswear fashion trend in the 80s. I even had the Wonder Woman Underoos! But at the end of the day, the middle of the day, really any part of the day, I dig dudes — always have, always will.

 

I’m not ashamed. I’m no longer afraid to come out and say, “I’m straight, that’s great, get used to it.” And for those who don’t understand or agree with my need to be this way, all I can say is that I was born this way. I couldn’t change if I wanted to, and make no mistake, I don’t want to change.

People have asked me if I’ve told my family. I’m happy to say that I did, over 35 years ago, and they accepted me and who I was from the start. Having a loving and supportive family is a one big reason that I feel like I can make this public admission.  Believe me, I know that not every family is strong enough to deal with heterosexuality and all that encompasses relationships that involve a guy and a girl, especially when the girl is their daughter. My family and friends have been great, and I really do appreciate their openness.

Clay said he decided to come out of his closet because, “I cannot raise a child to lie or to hide things. I wasn’t raised that way, and I’m not going to raise a child to do that.” To be completely honest, that’s the reason I didn’t want to hide my heterosexuality any longer. I don’t want baby Clay to think it’s okay to lie or hide things either, so I’m telling the world, I like men – big ones (especially :-p), skinny ones, light ones, dark ones, chocolates, nillas, butterscotches, caramellies, mocha mints, salt and peppers, all of them — well not all, but most of them. I don’t like them too young because I’m not up for all the training, or too short for other reasons, but you get my point.

Anyway, now you know, and soon everyone else will once the photographer gets here. After all, everyone has a right to know, right?

 

He knows what He’s doing

“I know what I’m doing. I have it all planned out—plans to take care of you, not abandon you, plans to give you the future you hope for” (Jeremiah. 29:11 MSG)

Who wouldn’t like that verse? Seriously, that is a great verse, not just because of the sentiment but because it takes all worries and planning out of our hands and into God’s. I love that verse, but if I’m completely honest (a terribly annoying habit of mine), I haven’t always found contentment with that verse. It’s hard to, really, when events within and beyond our control seem to be the only events present, and they’re not particularly enjoyable events. It helps to look at the verse in its proper context.

The children of Israel were in one of their not so great situations. They were living in exile in Babylon, and they were living under oppression, but God told them to (essentially) live like they were free. He told them not to let their lives stop just because their current circumstances were less than desirable. He says in verses 5-7, and 10:

“Build houses and settle down; plant gardens and eat what they produce. Marry and have sons and daughters; find wives for your sons and give your daughters in marriage, so that they too may have sons and daughters. Increase in number there; do not decrease. Also, seek the peace and prosperity of the city to which I have carried you into exile. Pray to the LORD for it, because if it prospers, you too will prosper…” This is what the LORD says: “When seventy years are completed for Babylon, I will come to you and fulfill my gracious promise to bring you back to this place…”

Imagine living in a space that is so far from what you want, from what is comfortable, from how you thought you should be living, and having God tell you that not only will you continue in that space for some period of time, but that you need to learn to get comfortable in that space for said period of time. Clearly, that instruction would have met with a curious and confused little black girl! I think if presented with that instruction, my brows would have furrowed, my hips would have moved to one side, and G-fab Reese would have made an appearance (well, as ghetto fabulous as I’m capable of being… showtunes and all). That call to be better than our circumstances dictate is contrary to all human reasoning, really. Even if we’re able to keep from complaining, it seems like doing anything even remotely productive would be challenging at best. It’s so easy just to sit and wait idly until circumstances, rather, until God changes our circumstances to something our minds determine to be “better.”

But when you know the circumstance isn’t going anywhere for, uh… 70 years, idle waiting, not to be confused with patient waiting, is not the answer, the call or the solution. It’s kind of like God is saying, “I know you don’t like it, but it’s all for a purpose. I’m going to surprise you.” And all you can do is obey Him, knowing that He knows what He’s doing. This is the essence of faith, and faith has its own rewards.

He goes on to say in verses 12 – 14

“Then you will call upon me and come and pray to me, and I will listen to you. You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart. I will be found by you,” declares the LORD, “and will bring you back from captivity. ^[b] I will gather you from all the nations and places where I have banished you,” declares the LORD, “and will bring you back to the place from which I carried you into exile.”

That’s probably my 2nd favorite part of the passage, verse 14 especially. He knows we’re in a banished, exiled state of being, rejected and shamed, but He promised to bring us back to our Jerusalem, “the place from which I carried you into exile,” the place where we once felt the greatest peace and security and strength. I suppose that my Jerusalem is actually Jerusalem, the place where I felt the most serene in recent years. My relationship with Him was so clearly defined and the closeness to Him brought about a renewed spirit, energy and overall purpose in my life. But like Peter, I took my eyes off His eyes, and I started to sink. Gracious God that He is, He pulled me up, bringing me back to “the place.”

So for me living in that space like a free person has meant a letting go of so many things, and in recent weeks I have let go (FOR GOOD) a host of situations and relationships. It’s meant a good deal of deleting and discarding — phone numbers, email addresses, emails, pictures, memories, and beliefs. It’s meant coming to the understanding that moving forward cannot be contingent upon answers and apologies, that knowing the whys and why nots doesn’t change the what is. God’s will is done, on earth as it is in heaven, and I have such a better appreciation for God’s plans for my life now that I’m out of (or at the tail end of) my exile, and that appreciation came only after I had accepted God’s call to let go and live in that space.

He did, however, allow one why to be revealed to me recently. I could have learned this information several months ago when a friend of mine wanted to share, but God knew that my heart would not have been able to handle all that comes with this knowledge in relation to my situation. Instead I learned less than a week ago that the one who really escorted me through the door to the darkest period in my life has escorted another young woman through an even more life altering door, and he handled it in a less than stellar manner. I have nothing but sympathy for the mother and child, but I praise my Lord in heaven that He spared me this fate. When I told my Nikki about this turn of events, she cried because she immediately saw the hand of God in my life. God had to rip me from a difficult situation aggressively to keep me from putting myself in a similar situation, because I wasn’t going anywhere otherwise! And I sat in the exile doing little to move on until very recently. But now I see clearly that I have a hope for a future that I had actually given up on what seems like 70 years ago.

(This is not to say that God no longer has plans for this new “family”, it’s just not a future that has anything to do with me.)

I think about my future so much these days. I think about God’s mercies new every morning. I think about my changed heart. I think about what real love looks like, feels like, acts like, and I smile knowing that my future isn’t, thank you Jesus, in my hands at all. God’s got it, and He’s revealing it bit by bit to me, cautioning me to wait expectantly on Him and His timing, all while I learn to live in this space. He knows my heart, my hope and my future. What could be better?

 

Writing it out

There is a wonderful woman in my life going through cancer. She had a tumor rapidly growing in her abdomen, and she was in horrendous pain. The doctors insisted she have surgery to remove it and several parts of her body directly affected by it. She was also told that she had to have chemotherapy for any hope of long-term survival. The tumor that had grown in her abdomen in 3 weeks was the size of a football when it was removed. She’s now preparing herself for the chemo, which, at best, will make her sick while it makes her better. She says her experience is to teach others how to go through struggle, to give praise in the midst of pain, and not to question why. Throughout everything, she’s done nothing but give God glory. She’s ready for whatever He has in store for her.

That’s how Christians are supposed to handle pain. This I understand. It is not, however, how I handled mine, but I thank God He’s been so gracious and patient with me. For me, well, I’m including writing as my way out. That’s how I describe much of my writing these days, and this post will be no different. The truth is simple, and the simple truth is that I was hurt by people and circumstances, I hung on to the pain a little too long, and I’m moving on…now. I would have loved to have healed and been able to move on long ago, but I allowed the pain of the minor and major blows against me to infect my life, which caused more damage than perhaps necessary. Wow, that really is simple. Actually, I can make it even simpler – I didn’t trust God to be all that I’ve known Him to be, and I fell into the mother of all ruts, depression, etc.

Sure, the details aren’t pretty, and I’m terribly sorry about that, but that’s what pain looks like, and Christians, of which I am one, need to stop judging one another for how we each deal with pain, and instead help one another through the pain with the Word and prayer and all that good stuff we learn on Sunday mornings and on radio shows and the books we read. Yes, watching someone go through stuff without any sort of grace (or minimal amounts) is ugly, especially when we have seen a better side of that person. And yes, behaving as the worst part of ourselves is so contrary to the way God instructs and guides us to be that it’s actually embarrassing. But what happened to loving my neighbor as myself? How often do we look at how we handle our own pain? Ride in a car with someone in hurry when there’s a backup due to an accident. We go absolutely nuts on the road because we might be late for dinner or a movie or whatever. Meanwhile, someone else has just had an accident!

I can’t say enough how much I appreciate Stephanie W’s words to me – sister to sister – about my need to forgive. That’s what standing up for Christ and what showing the love of Christ looks like. That’s what being “there” for someone looks like. Maybe her words were off the cuff in her mind (I don’t know), but God used her to light a fire up under my hind parts, and I know in my heart that the hand she held out to me was the hand of Christ reaching down into a pit I was settled in, and her voice was the inspired by our Lord to say, “You don’t have to stay here. Get out! It’s not pretty in there and you don’t have to stay.” That means something. Aren’t we Christians supposed to be the hands and feet of Christ?

The Word talks about doing the difficult thing in Luke 10:29 and following.

“…so he asked Jesus, “And who is my neighbor?”

³⁰ Jesus replied with a story: “A Jewish man was traveling on a trip from Jerusalem to Jericho, and he was attacked by bandits. They stripped him of his clothes, beat him up, and left him half dead beside the road.

³¹ “By chance a priest came along. But when he saw the man lying there, he crossed to the other side of the road and passed him by. ³² A Temple assistant^[a] walked over and looked at him lying there, but he also passed by on the other side.

³³ “Then a despised Samaritan came along, and when he saw the man, he felt compassion for him. ³⁴ Going over to him, the Samaritan soothed his wounds with olive oil and wine and bandaged them. Then he put the man on his own donkey and took him to an inn, where he took care of him. ³⁵ The next day he handed the innkeeper two silver coins,^[b] telling him, ‘Take care of this man. If his bill runs higher than this, I’ll pay you the next time I’m here.’

³⁶ “Now which of these three would you say was a neighbor to the man who was attacked by bandits?” Jesus asked.

³⁷ The man replied, “The one who showed him mercy.”

Then Jesus said, “Yes, now go and do the same.” NLT

Maybe it takes a relative stranger to have any impact at all. Maybe that’s why we travel the world to minister to people thousands of miles from our homes, when there’s a broken person across the street. How could anyone be trusted to care for people on the other side of the world when we aren’t willing to care for people across the street without judging them first? And what is it that we think when we see them in a state of brokenness? Is it easier to understand the brokenness in a foreign language? Or maybe it’s that the pain of our right next-door neighbor looks a little too much like our own pain.

Christians have such a bad rep these days. So much is going on in churches and around the world that makes Christians look like the worst of all offenders. We are better than that, though. We are pushing people out of the church doors and away from God, and we have no care or concern for the brokenness we’ve created and caused. We have to stop, and stop now. And we need to stop making excuses for ourselves and stop omitting parts of the Word for our own purposes. We need to turn our eyes back upon Jesus. Look full in His wonderful face.  We need to believe in His power to change hearts and lives. We need to get tired of sitting in that space that looks exactly like the space without Him, because if we get too comfortable, there’s a world of pain to be had.

What I hope comes from my experience is that eyes are opened to the future, not the past. Nothing can change what has happened, but we can change what we do, how we handle people, pain, experiences, etc. in the future. If we can stand in support, even when we’re not in agreement, we can help in the healing process. If we can accept that sometimes words really are enough, and that silence isn’t always golden, we can help in the healing process. If we choose to listen to a friend and NOT gossip and judge afterwards, we can help in the healing process. If we can understand that it’s enough to have someone pray for us even if we don’t actually hear them do it, we can help in the healing process. If we can choose to forgive before things get way, way out of control instead of waiting for some sort of apology or mea culpa from people who sadly are not self-aware enough to apologize for bad behavior, we can help in the healing process. But most importantly, if we can see God in all of His greatness and realize that it’s all about Him, we can be healed.

 

So proud, so proud

I’m still in awe of the speech of our next President, and I am finally proud of one of this country’s leaders. Barack Obama is an amazing man, a prolific speaker, and a true American. He is a man of the people, not some of the people – the people who look like him, but all of the people.

Listening to him speak made me wonder, once again, how in the world Dub was “elected” the president of anything other than a homecoming planning committee. I’m still mystified by the blatant disregard for the facts and the state of the country that, 4 years ago, led folks to say, “Sure, things in this country have gotten worse for MOST Americans under his leadership — healthcare, jobs in this country, the economy, the role of America in the world, and have mercy the war on terrorism in Iraq even though Al Qaeda is in Afghanistan, but he’s against abortion and same sex marriage and he says he’s a Christian, so I’ll vote him in,” or whatever it was they told themselves to justify choosing mediocrity and driving our country further into despair. Someone once told me that she voted for him because she thought he was a good person. I’m not inclined to agree with that “thinking”, but even if he is a good person, who cares? That’s not the job of the commander in chief. His or her job is to lead this country, and to do what’s best for the majority of the people — not his rich friends.

Actively participating in the political process is something my parents instilled in me. I’ve been watching the conventions since I was in high school. I still remember sitting on my parents’ bed and watching Jesse Jackson speak at the DNC in 1988 while I was on the phone with the guy I was digging at the time. I’ve worked on several presidential campaigns, and I try to keep myself tuned in to what the elected officials are and are not doing. As an educated Black female firmly entrenched in the middle class, I take pride in paying acute attention to my country’s leaders and the experiences of my fellow Americans. It’s painful to see that more and more elected officials choose to give in to their wealthy counterparts to the detriment of their constituency. I still believe, though, that there are good politicians in our country, who want better, who want more for this amazing nation than what we have right now. And finally I see one on the biggest stage pleading the case for ALL Americans.

I wish that I could go through his entire speech and pull out the points that moved me and touched me, but the truth is, it all touched me. He spoke frankly and earnestly, and I was so proud to be an American like him. His tone was not condescending or flippant, and it’s clear that he is in touch with the people he wants to represent and lead… that’s all of us… He wasn’t unkind to his opponent, but he spoke the truth and not the propaganda that his opponent spews about him. And while I don’t think that everything that Obama hopes to accomplish can be in the short 8 years of his impending presidency, it was refreshing to hear him actually express an interest in restoring some dignity and growth to this country. The principles upheld by  my country’s prez  for the past 8 years are shameful and dangerous and embarrassing, and we can’t survive if we keep doing the same ole, good ole boy, things. It’s time for a change, and just Obama’s desire for change is the difference between night and day.

We have already had 8 horrible years of night… isn’t it time for some day?

 

Looking in the mirror…it’s time

The sun is emerging again. I’ve been on this ebbing and flowing journey for what seems like have mercy too long, and so much of it has seemed to take place in a murky, winding tunnel, requiring me to learn to feel my way through a dark space for longer than I thought I could manage. Much of that darkness was detailed in my last blog, and sharing that level of detail was a struggle for me.

As a writer, words are my life’s breath, and self-expression makes my heart beat. Writing gives me energy, is my purpose, but it had been over 30 days since I had posted prior to Recon or not. Essentially, I didn’t want to put down on paper (or screen) the pain that I’ve alluded to elsewhere, for a host of reasons. I figured that I would heal by distancing myself as much as possible from the source (or the largest part of the source) of my pain, praying not quite deliberately enough to my Lord, regularly visiting with my therapist, and candidly sharing with those around me… and most of that helped.

It was the sharing, though, that tripped me up a bit. The uncensored sharing of still tender feelings can often help the healing process. The challenge arises when the hearing of my experience contrasts and even contradicts the living of another’s own experiences at the same source. It seems that speaking my pain netted me sympathetic, unbelieving, or apathetic looks, but not the spiritual direction and encouragement that my broken spirit craved. The truth is that people — friends, family, etc. – either don’t want to hear about your pain or they have no idea how to help you through your pain, regardless of any religious, familial, cultural, or gender-related connection you think you share. And retelling pain transforms pure brokenness into perpetual bitterness and a heart of unforgiveness in the minds of others and in some case in the reality of life. I was concerned about my tone and how it made me feel to really have those feelings.

But after writing and, more importantly, posting that entry, the burden I’ve been carrying became just that much lighter, and some of what has been clouding my mind started to clear a bit. I’m grateful because the clarity pushed me to resume daily Bible study, and the Word is steeped in the spiritual direction and encouragement that I, sad to say, had hoped to get from others. And I saw something sort of ironic in the Word, specifically in Job and in the book of Psalms.

Okay, so I’d actually read Psalms in the past, and for a while there, I was living off Psalm 37. Holla! But it wasn’t until I read Psalm 40 recently that I understood why I need to write down the raw truth of what I’ve gone through and am going through. Psalm 40 is like a pre-WordPress blog from David. In it, he writes about

• his pain and regrets (v12 “For innumerable evils have compassed me about; my iniquities have taken such hold on me that I am not able to look up. They are more than the hairs of my head, and my heart has failed me and forsaken me.”)
• his enemies (v14 Let them be put to shame and confounded together who seek and require my life to destroy it; let them be driven backward and brought to dishonor who wish me evil and delight in my hurt!”)

as well as

• his adoration for his God (v5 “Many, O Lord my God, are the wonderful works which You have done, and Your thoughts toward us; no one can compare with You! If I should declare and speak of them, they are too many to be numbered.”)
• and God’s faithfulness (v2 “He drew me up out of a horrible pit [a pit of tumult and of destruction], out of the miry clay (froth and slime), and set my feet upon a rock, steadying my steps and establishing my goings.”) AMP

Similarly, Job speaks freely:

• of his pain (Job 7:11 — “I cannot keep from speaking. I must express my anguish. My bitter soul must complain.”)
• of his wish that he’d never been born (Job 14:13 – “I wish you would hide me in the grave and forget me there until your anger has passed. But mark your calendar to think of me again.”)
• and his useless friends (Job 16:2-6:

 2 What miserable comforters you are!
 3 Won’t you ever stop blowing hot air?
      What makes you keep on talking?
 4 I could say the same things if you were in my place.
      I could spout off criticism and shake my head at you.
 5 But if it were me, I would encourage you.
      I would try to take away your grief.
 6 Instead, I suffer if I defend myself,
      and I suffer no less if I refuse to speak.”) NLT

The entire book details Job’s anguish in the midst of living in the space God allowed, his acknowledgement of the sovereignty of God, dialogues with curious friends, God’s eventual response that reiterates His overall authority, power, and will, and ends with Job’s subsequent retraction of all his complaints.

Neither Job nor David holds anything back because their God — my God – is willing to hear our raw emotion, the heart of our pain, the truth of our experience. It’s not like God can’t already hear what’s in our minds. It’s not like He’s sitting around wondering, “How’s Reese doing after leaving that church? I wonder how she’s handling the loss of those friendships. I wonder if her heart is healing at all. Oh look, she got a great deal on those Mary Janes at Loehmann’s.” God knows my heart just as He knew David’s and Job’s and yours, and it seems to me that if He didn’t want us to feel freedom to express all aspects of our hearts, He wouldn’t have given us the capacity to experience them.

Now, I don’t actually presume that Job, David and I are on the same spiritual level. And clearly, they spent more time praising God than complaining about those who hurt or wanted to hurt them. But Job got an entire book, and David got to hurl stones at the giant that was his source of contention, and watch him die, so all things considered, we’re not exactly equal. I am, however, still learning to walk with the same character that these men of God possessed, and I understand that any space away from God and that posture He instructs me to assume is not a space I need to spend a whole lot of time in.

So God and I are working together to move on to the next space. And He’s using some special people and situations for His overall glory. For instance, I went to church for the first time in a month, and the sermon presented was all about … Forgiveness. Coincidence… I think not.

Then, after the service, my friend Jon’s lovely bride Steph stopped me for a chat, and she mentioned that she had read one of my blogs. I cringed and sort of alluded to the fact that I’m working some things out on the blog and in my head, and she smiled warmly, motioned to the pulpit, and said, “Ooh … forgiveness…” and I got it.

See, sometimes you need someone to stand beside you in the mirror when you’re wearing those crazi pink Crocs to help you see how they are not working for you and you need to get something new. You don’t need people to sit by and quietly let you keep wearing them while they’re talking behind your back, and you don’t need people to tell you how good they look on you,  and you don’t need people to tell you to defy fashion and to keep wearing them, and you don’t need people who will shun you for owning pink Crocs. You need someone who will say, “Naw, sweetheart. Let me show you something different.”

 

Recon or not

I recently entered my late 30’s, and a milestone like 37 sparked me to look back at the past couple of years to analyze where I am these days. I now like where I am and where I’m going, especially since a little over a year ago, I was almost completely unrecognizable. I had lost my fire after falling way too deep into a “church” that was once a haven for me. I had been pulled into the fold because of my willingness to serve (God) and my ability to manage my finances well enough to give. But I was unceremoniously discarded and badmouthed when the muckity muck of the lives of others cluttered and denigrated my own. And my attempts to reach out for help and support were disregarded and ignored. I finally left after it was clear that the organization’s ability to “build into” one of its own was contingent upon something other than Jesus’ call to love.

I’ll admit there’s more than a hint of bitterness when I speak of that place and most of the relationships formed there that I once believed in, but given what I experienced, I’ll not apologize for showing the scars from the wounds I have survived, and I will continue to keep it real. It is truly a terribly thing to stand up as a friend with people through court cases, painting parties (shameful name for slave labor), house purchases, financial crises, marital discord, untimely deaths, etc. only to find that those friendships and the connections weren’t substantive enough to weather life’s difficult moments when things came to me.

I was completely surprised and broken, but after some time, I’ve come to understand that oral expressions of friendship and loyalty because of a shared allegiance to Christ are often just scripts that people have memorized; they are recitations that sound convincing but actually lack the substantive application to life that being a sister or brother in Christ assumes. Ultimately it comes down to being a Christian rather than acting like one. Needless to say, my experience with those people has taught me that connections are tricky and not to be trusted solely on the merits of like religious beliefs.

The question comes up, though, about forgiveness and reconnection. I am aware that my inability to thoroughly forgive spotlights my own deficiencies in following Christ. The problem for me is that forgiveness without an acknowledgement of wrongdoing is difficult although not completely beyond my ability. I’m told by third parties about how much I’m missed and loved… can never forget the love… but not a word to me directly. As a matter of fact, in the 5 months since I left, not one of my former ministry leaders has contacted me or responded to my attempts to contact them, and more surprisingly, not one of the pastors that I assisted almost every Sunday for 3 years and 3 services has bothered to shepherd this sheep. The connections have been broken.

Recently, I have received correspondence from some of those people, and I view them with skepticism and cynicism. The truth is that in the case of most adults, mistreatment occurs because it is permitted, even subconsciously welcomed, despite being undeserved and deplorable. I was treated like crap, but that was due in part to the allowances I made for people. There is some level of foolish thought that says, “Even though I don’t like how I feel or who you are when I’m in your presence, I will continue to stand in that space.” I don’t want the lesson to be lost on me… but I also don’t want the lesson to inhibit my desire to live in fact, as Christ called me to live. Don’t I owe Him the chance to work through possible reconnection to change and improve me?

Oddly enough, I have experienced some wonderfully surprising reconnections in recent months. For years I have thought of people from my undergraduate school — 5 specifically — that I would love to be in contact with that are not already in my life. (Thank goodness my Nikki and the Diva never left my side or heart.) Through the wonders of Facebook, I have reconnected with 4 of those fellas (I never was much a girl’s girl), and those reconnections reminded me of a wonderful time in my life when literature was life and my passion was full of fire. I thought that I could conquer the world, live my dreams, and stay up all night writing an A paper. I’m grateful that The Goodeness, Vincent Tardy as in late for class, Coop (because of Twin Peaks), and Joel Micah Nahum Habakkuk dropped in to say hello. And it’s so not the quantity of time that matters, as there has been only a bit, but is, instead, the substance of the people and the value of the connection itself, which, by the way, is priceless. I wonder if we all knew back then that there was something of worth to be held even in the far recesses of our minds about one another.

( And not for nothing, it’s refreshing to be in the company of people who get that an understanding of Black culture does not necessarily have anything to do with the in depth knowledge of who sung what song and the dance we did when we heard it. JayZ and Kanye aren’t the only voices of the Black community that should be heard. Pick up a flippin’ book, people, and learn a little something about Black culture! ) But I digress…

One difference, of course, is that time and circumstance precipitated the loss of connection rather than anything overt on anyone’s part. Also, I know the core of the people I’m dealing with, and it’s a core of decency and authenticity, so I like the core of the college friends. And it’s easier when things aren’t so serious, and aren’t necessarily connected with any religious affiliation, which for me assumes some sort of you-me-and-Jesus union that binds us tighter than perhaps the actual connection warrants. Keeping expectations low isn’t one of my strongpoints.

So reconnection can be wonderful, and has been, relatively speaking. Some lovely people have surprised me on my journey with connection and reconnection. Still, there are those that, despite anyone’s best efforts, can be nothing but destructive. It comes down to navigating the waters cautiously but opening up to the possibility of even (just) glimpses of goodness. Sometimes the most dangerous thing we can do is not welcome the Son peeking through the clouds.

 

Feels like home

There are moments that overwhelm me, situations that baffle me, people who confuse me, and feelings that surprise me, and then there are those times when everything seems just right. Times with my Nikki always feel like home, like warm apple pie, like crisp $20 bills, like evenings with the Simmseses, like New York style pizza, like waking up at Kripalu, like hot chocolate when it’s snowing, like Tiger Woods on Father’s Day, like the Nordstrom’s Anniversary Sale, like shoe shopping with the Diva, like 3 hour phone conversations, like anytime with my family.

I dig those times that feel right, that are right without any confusion or pretense, without any walls or any boundaries, without any disappointments or disconnection. I cherish those experiences, moreso recently as I’m in the process of transition, of letting go of things that I held on to with a stranglehold, of realizing my place in this space, and of becoming who it is I was created to be. One thing I know for sure is that home and situations that feel like home are precious and natural. They breathe life into me, they awaken my spirit, they renew my mind, they nourish me.

I’m at a place in my life where natural is just about the only way I can do life. I’m in a space where comfort is key. This is not to say that I expect that life will always be comfortable, have mercy, but I’m certainly not inviting or breeding discomfort and I’m not going to manufacture situations and relationships that are so far from the feeling of home and the like that I can’t see home anymore.

I have been far from home, and it takes times like tonight with my Nikki to remind me about the comforts of home. I hear her voice, her genuine concern for my heart, her deep laugh after she’s heard about one of my recent escapades, and I know that I’m in the presence of a genuine friend. There is no guesswork, no script, no confusion. It’s just two friends who get each other doing what is natural. And when I experience times like tonight, I wonder how I’ve ever dealt with anything less.

 

Kripalu, part 1

For the past few years, I have spent my vacations at a beach resort in Fort Lauderdale with my friend Netta. We sit on the beach, eat gourmet meals, shop for hours, and watch tv. For exciting reasons –namely, Netta’s 3 week tour of Great Britain — that vacation could not happen this year, and I had to scramble to find something else to do. Last fall, I was planning to go to the Kripalu Center to attend a Women of Color Yoga Retreat (WOCYR), but my depression was at such an intense level that I couldn’t set my mind to make any decisions. Needless to say, when I was in scramble mode this year, my search brought me to the Kripalu website, and the WOCYR happened to be scheduled for the same weekend as my vacation. We call that perfect timing.

I am interested in yoga, and I have taken quite a few yoga classes, but I have not practiced yoga. Well, yoga and the yogic lifestyle are a significant part of the Kripalu experience. At Kripalu, life is simple unless, of course, you choose to complicate it with a very visible flirtation with JC from Jerusalem, and despite the ever-growing presence of Kate Spade handbags in my closet, I crave a simpler life. This center is a special place, and the experience was one that I will build upon as much as I possibly can.

When I first arrived at the center, I expected to stand out as the lone suburban Jesus lover among a sea of experienced tree hugging, Eastern religion pushing, Christianity-averse people who potentially were boycotting deodorant. I could not have been more wrong. I went in with a head full of erroneous expectations and judgments hoping not to be judged by those around me.  We call that ironic hypocrisy.  

I needed the Kripalu experience. I needed to step far outside of my box and try something new. I needed no frills, no excesses. I needed deliberate exposure to nature uncluttered with buildings. I needed healthy nourishment without preservatives, and I needed interaction with a community of people without any agenda other than encouraging one another in being our authentic selves. Most importantly, I needed open space, fresh air, and a distraction free setting to allow me to sit and talk with my Lord, quietly enough to hear Him speak to me. And I got everything that I needed… and more.

As a Christ-follower struggling with my role in the contemporary Christian community, I found it refreshing to exist, however briefly, in a place dedicated to the yogic value system, which resembles some aspects of the Christian values with which I was raised. According to their website, “Kripalu operates in accord with a set of core values that [include]: a commitment to authenticity, radical self-trust, the courage to fully express one’s self, and unconditional positive regard for others.” I must admit, as I walked around the campus of Kripalu on my first day, and adapted to the spirit of that place, I was impressed with the commitment to the yogic lifestyle that everyone I encountered displayed. 

The makeup of this place is not at all conducive to sustaining the capitalistic, sex-, money- and power-obsessed world in which we live. It is a spiritual place that “works” because its ideals are clear and unwavering, and its leadership, staff and visitors hold those ideals as non-negotiable staples to the experience. And in a place without crosses and Bibles, I was able to focus on God, and listen to His cry for me to release my grip from the pains of the past so that He could fill my life with something better. And He used an unlikely bunch of amazing women to remind me that I am loved and accepted for nothing other than just being myself. They supported my creative flow in a new way, wiped my tears of loss and regret, shared God’s love by reminding me to take care of the temple He gave me, encouraged me not to give up the Church just because one church has forgotten The Way, and taught me the Cha-cha slide patiently and methodically. And for all of that, I am so, so grateful.

I suppose the biggest lesson I learned at Kripalu was about doing things differently. I incorporated that idea into my life immediately upon arriving at the center. For one thing, I ate an entirely vegetarian diet for my entire stay. In addition, when selecting my food from the meal lines – it’s cafeteria style dining – I selected foods that I had never eaten before, and I ate the food from one large bowl. That might not seem like a big deal, but I was a person that required that the items on my plate never touch, and I have never been adventurous with my food. The result – I ate fabulous meals in moderation, and I lost 6 pounds. I have gone back to eating some animal proteins, but far fewer than I had prior to my trip.

Another difference for me was that I paid little attention to my attire at the center. I wore shorts for the first time in about 3 years, and I wore bright pink fake Crocs – affectionately referred to as Cracs – that didn’t match a thing on my body, and it was great! And oddly enough, I didn’t even pay attention to what other people were wearing… except for the cool hat that JC wore.

The most surprising difference was that I freely expressed my creativity without any fears in the midst of strangers. I’m ashamed to say that despite my leaning to the creative side of life – namely writing – I have often felt hindered by the destructive criticism uttered by individuals around me. I remember the last drama I was asked to participate in at my former church, and how, on day 1 of rehearsals, almost the entire cast complained about my delivery of lines I had seen for the first time that night, each trying to out criticize the other… and those people were “Christians” claiming to be my friends. Imagine what strangers would do. But at Kripalu, there was a welcoming support for my creative flow, not just in writing, but also in dance and impromptu speaking and in jewelry making, and I created art in that environment in a way that I never thought I could. There’s just no limit to a freely creative mind. 

I understand, of course, that Kripalu was just the setting, that the experiences were not site-specific, and that timing had much to do with the benefits of the experience for me. A year ago, I would not have been able to comprehend the benefits of a technology free zone. A year ago, I would not have been able to accept that I had to let go of a place and people that were essentially more destructive than crack (or Cracs) to me. A year ago, I would not have been able to live without a burger and fries a few times a week. And a year ago, I would not have seen the importance of getting so quiet that the thoughts in my mind were still enough to actually hear from God. What a difference a year makes!

My intended prayer: “Lord, everything I thought I lost, everything I thought I needed, I give to You without hesitation. You have shown me something so much better – the wealth of a simplified and creative life. And you did it all at one of the most beautiful places on earth. Thank You.”

 

An American icon …Tim Russert

Tim Russert died today. This I learned after reading the news that R. Kelly was acquitted of child porno charges, which is really part of the problem. Why is that even newsworthy? He’s still a freak! But I digress…

Tim Russert has died, and when I saw the words on my computer screen, tears flooded my eyes and continue to do so. Why? Why does this man’s death cause me, and, I’m sure, many like me, to be filled with sadness? My answer is that he is really an American icon. He’s a guy, an American guy that gets it … this whole idea of appreciating the importance of politics and understanding the role of politics and politicians in this country is so far from the thinking most of my peers and, really, most people that I know. Sure, we can detail the daily meltdowns of every 20-something in LAla-land, but we don’t know what the U.S. Congress is doing, what decisions are made each day that actively affect our day to day lives. Lest you think I’m preaching, I’m understand that I am part of the “we”.

And when I look at Russert, listen to Russert, I am so appreciative of his voice and that his voice has, for many years, encourage others to have not only a voice, but a listening and discerning ear. Studying and analyzing was not just his job, it was his interests. How can we not be interested in the world in which we live? How can it be so far down on the list of topics of conversation? We are told not to discuss politics and religion (is there a difference these days…) in polite conversation, but we can casually discuss the womb watch of 2008. It’s hard not to want to take an interest when listening to a man like Russert. He’s a reminder, really, of what makes our country great, what makes America worth fighting for, and why we Americans need to stop focusing on nonsense and on nothing, and to start making some changes.

I don’t want to rant, really. I want to express my deep sadness over the passing of an American great. I want to express my condolences to his family who have, in an instant, lost their dad and husband too soon. God help them walk this painful road.

There are losses every day, and I understand that each life has value. I wonder if it’s the surprise of the loss that intensifies the depth of this loss. I really can’t say, but this is a sad day.