Jail

A cage with life for bars
And misery for company
And pain for meals.

A cell with anger for freetime
And frustration for chores
And loneliness for friendship.

And sadness for teeth
And bitterness for bread
And an endless wall of nothing
For the future.

Wonderful Asking

In the early days of my salvation, I prayed for God to show me things from His perspective. I knew my attitude toward many things–including my marriage–was poor, and I wanted that to change.

That night I was feeling “put-upon” by my husband. As we lay in bed, he reached out and began to rub my back. I knew what that meant!

I silently prayed, “See Father? He only touches me when he wants something!” To which I heard the response, “What a wonderful way to ask for something, by giving it first!”

Blew my mind. And I find that simple sentence to be true in so many ways, beginning with Jesus asking me for my life by giving His first.

I Am Not My Hair … Am I?

It’s a strange fact: I often make choices that seem perfectly benign to me, and later find out that others tie specific thoughts, feelings, values and politics to the very same type of decision.

For example. (Well, I hadn’t intended to use hair to make a point about hair, but it works.)

Last year I was contemplating cutting off all my hair. I was working out regularly, and the sweat was wreaking havoc on my relaxer. The upkeep was time-consuming and expensive. I’d worn my hair very short  in the 90s, so I knew I could pull it off. I just needed to make a decision.

Then one day at the gym I glanced up at the television and saw Robin Roberts.

She looked amazing! Tell me she didn’t look amazing! I was intrigued by her courage–to be on mainstream network television and choose such a non-mainstream hairstyle! Seeing her was all I needed; I made an appointment and within two weeks, I was a new woman.

Now, I don’t watch the news or keep up with celebrities and television personalities. Even the ones I like. So even though I was familiar with Robin Roberts, I had no idea she was recovering from cancer; that she’d lost her hair during chemotherapy and had been wearing a wig throughout the ordeal; that her decision to take off the wig and let her hair grow back in front of the viewing world was difficult and scary. I didn’t learn these things until I went on the internet in search of a picture of her for my stylist. Robin had been courageous, but not the way I’d thought.

See? That happens all the time! Things seem straight-forward and simple, and it turns out they’re deep and complicated!

When I cut off my own hair, the decision was the perfect marriage between necessity and style. I’d save time and money, and I’d look nice. When I first got it cut, I also got it texturized. I later discovered I didn’t need to texturize, so I chose to stop. I went natural, but only because it was convenient to do so. I’d save even more time and money!

For black women, hair has always been a conversation starter. I didn’t know things were so serious until I visited a natural hair page on Facebook. Turns out there are all kinds of deep, value-based, political implications surrounding the decisions I’ve made about my hair! It’s this big octopus with tentacles tightly gripped around things like … my feelings about my race and other races; my acceptance (or lack thereof) of myself and my “roots” (no pun intended); my willingness to assuage or disregard the pressures of society to “fit in.” Oddly, outlandishly, the subject of child abuse was even raised!

Geez. It’s just hair!

Yesterday when I was getting ready for work, I spent more time than usual reflecting on my hair–which is now a few inches long and rather wilder than it was just a couple years ago. I wondered what my friends, peers, co-workers really think. I wondered if white people are frightened of me. I also wondered what’s on the minds of other black people–both men and women–when they see me. I wondered if I should purchase a pick with a fist. I actually felt a little self-conscious as I walked out the house and as I walked out my day.

I’ve always liked India Arie’s song, and I needed to hear it again today just to remind me! Why should I be intimidated by anyone’s opinions or politics on something so very personal and unique to me? (I knew I hated politics for a reason!)

Seriously, it’s just hair.

It’s called good news for a reason.

No, I don’t think you understand… There really is good news! And everybody needs to know it. Everybody needs to evaluate it at face value.

In the spring of 1992 I woke up from a dream about the son I’d aborted. When I sat up, still half asleep, I saw my bed surrounded by leaping, orange flames. (They weren’t really there.) I finally recognized myself honestly: I was a murderer. I also recognized the flames: I was going straight to hell. Right away I was swallowed up by utter hopelessness. That year is like a mental abyss. I don’t remember most of it, and that’s especially sad since it was the first year of my oldest daughter’s life. Eventually I managed to stuff everything. But if something triggered the memory, horror was waiting to dive on me.

I didn’t know there was good news for another seven years.

So, subtract all the hype, the judgmental-ism, the “servants” with gold toilet seats, the ugliness perpetuated by those who believed they were doing God’s work. Just evaluate the good news for what it is.

Everybody knows they’re guilty. Everybody knows there’s a cost for their sins … their lies, their shortcomings, their greed and spite and general ugliness. (Don’t sleep … you know.) Our sin keeps us from being able to get close to God. Worse, we’re slaves to sin. Sin has a ring in our noses and leads us around like cattle. Since it’s the only life we’ve known, we don’t recognize its power over us. We work really hard to stay enslaved. Slavery is comfortable and fashionable, and everybody’s doing it! It’s the new black! And even if we realize the truth about our slavery, we’re still powerless to end it.

So we don’t know who we really are, or who we’re meant to be.

The end result of sin is death. God doesn’t want this. He wants us, and he is willing to chase us and show us how much he loves us. So he chose to both wipe our records clean and pay for our release. The currency for these things was his own blood–completely sin-free. Through His sinless son Jesus, our sins were paid for and our guilt was erased. When he died, he took our sins with him into the grave. And when he came back to life, he left our sins behind to rot in the tomb. 

Now, if you don’t know about this, you might go on living like a slave. Or even if you know it, you might prefer slavery. But if you want to be free, you can be. You exchange your guilt and your former life for the life God wants for you through Jesus. You choose to stop following sin around like a walking slab of beef with a ring through its nose, and follow Jesus. His way leads to the life you were created to live, the you that you were meant to be.

Oh, and it’s not a little of this and a little of that. You can only have one or the other. Complete slavery to sin (which is the default setting when you’re born), or complete submission to Jesus. (I’m not gonna pretty it up and say dumb crap like Jesus will take away all your troubles, and your life will be like a rosy stroll in the park either.) Without God, you’re on your own (and maybe that’s fine with you). With God … well, you’ll have God! Who or what else could you possibly need!

July 12, 2009

Jesus said if you deny him before men, he’ll deny you before his Father.

I was thinking today about what it means to deny Jesus before men. My first response was, “I’ve never done that. I’ll never do that.”

But then I thought about every time I’ve had the opportunity to speak on Jesus’ behalf–to introduce him into the conversation. Not a conversation about faith or about religion or about politics, but just an ordinary conversation.

So let’s say there’s a way to succinctly and relevantly bring up the gospel in an ordinary conversation. And I’m not talking about one of those awkward cheesy segueways. “Speaking of minivans, did you know Jesus loves you?”

No, I mean there’s a real-deal opportunity. I’m fully aware of it. And I don’t take it. Did I just deny him?

July 4, 2009

Do you ever just get sick of the fluff?

Aren’t you sick of Christianese?

Don’t you cringe when people “talk the talk”?

Aren’t you fed up with church as usual?

What does it look like to really follow Christ? Really follow Him?

Did He really die so we could be comfortable?

Did He suffer so we could raise our kids in a nice, safe neighborhood?

Do we go to church to get our varied needs met, or do we go there to find Jesus?

Do we really believe that His church is the hope of the world? That He is freedom?

What does a “prayer of salvation” really accomplish?

Why is worship a list of songs?

What can I do to further the cause of Christ in my life, and in the community of believers with whom I live?

June 20, 2009

What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
Like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore–
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over–
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?
–A Dream Deferred by Langston Hughes

That night after I watched the horrible movie (and I raged at my husband as the representative of all Men), I laid in bed and sobbed until I couldn’t breathe through my nose. While he drifted off into oblivious sleep, I considered.

That bitter, unforgiving itchbay I see in the mirror is only part of the picture. What I really am is a ball of pain, wrapped in multiple layers of self-preservation, and finished with an outer shell of spikes, rusty nails and barbed wire. Sort of like a Ferrero Rocher chocolate, except a little bigger and slightly less delicious.

I sat up in bed, partly so I could breathe again, but mostly to talk with Jesus. I said something like, “This is what I am, but it’s not what I want to be. It’s so deeply entrenched and so much a part of my DNA that I don’t know how to change. What am I supposed to do with all this pain? What can you do with me?”

Then I remembered a dream I used to have: There was an abstinence ministry in my heart. I dreamt of helping, loving, encouraging girls and young women, talking to them about abstinence, helping them live it out. I was willing to let my pain be like manure: Stinky, yes. But fertilizer for something much better. Funk with a purpose.

Then the weeds came. “You’re not even good at talking to people.” “Why would a teenager listen to you?” “What if it hurts?” “Who has time?” “What if it fails?” I was afraid, so instead of a garden, the pain became a landfill. The dream got buried under a bunch of distractions and life and crapola. Eventually and so slowly that I didn’t notice, it disappeared from sight. But it still stunk, except it stunk for no good reason.

Okay, I’m scared! I think I’m more scared now than I was before. Those same weeds are there, but they look more like trees now.

There’s the first step. It’s a doozy! Not sure I want to climb yet. Just … gimme a sec to mentally prepare.

June 11, 2009

My life so far hasn’t prepared me for God’s loving nature, but there’s more–the other realization that came through counseling. This other truth has shaken my faith (though not in the way you might think). It’s caused me to avoid God altogether for the past two weeks.

About twice or three times a year I’ll have a “moment” where it feels as if God has led me up a high mountain and right up to the edge of a cliff. I’ll look down and all I’ll see is clouds far below me. I’m like, “Whoa God! [Nervous chuckle.] That’s … that’s really high! Okay well, it’s been fun, I’m gonna turn around and go home now!” And he’s like, “No no. I want you to jump.”

In my heart, I know if I jumped, I’d be okay. I might not be comfortable and I might not be entirely safe. But I’d be okay.

Then I start thinking of what might happen on the way down.

• What if no one catches me?
• Why do I have to jump? No one else is jumping!
• I’ll be the only one falling with no one to help me … again.
• How can I take care of myself, control my life, if I’m falling and can’t grip anything?
• Which of my beloved trinkets would fall out of my pockets?
• How much money and how many of my prized possessions would fall out of my purse?
• Who would I be without those things?
• I don’t know that strange woman who’s not tied to all her stuff; what if she’s nothing like me?
• I may not like who I am. But at least I’m predictable. Predictable is safe.

So I say, “Wait, what? That’s too high! That’s too dangerous! That’s too much.” And I back away from the edge and head home. As I walk, I feel him walking beside me, but I can’t look at him. I keep my eyes on my feet and hunch my shoulders, and I feel like crap. But I keep walking until I’m safely home.

Some of me chalks this “vision” up to my legalistic nature, and that tendency may play a part. But on the whole, I know what God’s asking of me is in line with the Bible. I mean, knowing what Jesus said, and what Paul and others later explained, how can I believe God isn’t more dangerous and terrifying than we’ve made him out to be? Everyone says he’s loving and tender and gentle–and he is. But he’s more than that. He’s more passionate than that, wilder than that. This has serious implications!

In summary:

• I don’t believe I’m acceptable “as is,” that I don’t have to work to earn his attention or approval. I don’t believe it’s possible to live the way I’m living (which is not bad by most standards) and still be pleasing to him.
• I do believe his expectations of me are higher than people say they are. I believe they’re higher than I’d like them to be. I believe his calling is far more dangerous and outlandish than I’d like it to be. I do believe he expects me to give up my life and all I hold dear before he will take me seriously. I do believe the purpose of my life will never be fulfilled if I don’t let it all go and never look back.

I know some of  what I believe is distorted, twisted out of context. But I also know that much of it isn’t.

This is my crisis of faith. It’s not the “Is God real?” kind, because I know he is. Instead, it’s the kind where I look in the mirror and realize (a) I don’t trust God to love me and not hurt me; and (b) I’ve been lying to myself about who he is and how a relationship with him works. These are hard truths for a professing Christian to face.

So now that the truth is on the table; now that I’ve acknowledged my unbelief; now that the lies are no longer an option … which path will I take?

June 8, 2009

After a serious outburst of anger last Christmas, I decided to see a counselor. Though I felt (and still feel) the anger itself was justifiable, the wild, edge-of-insane intensity of it scared me. 

In the beginning, I left each session feeling like I’d gone through a blender. There was a lot of picking scabs off forgotten wounds. They would hurt and bleed almost as much as they had when they’d first been inflicted. I’d walk out of the office and cry in my car. Eventually I just went ahead and cried in the office, where I had ready access to tissue. Either way, I’d spend a day or two afterwards, reliving and rehashing, and thinking none of this could be healthy. Uncovering the pain seemed to be making things worse, not better.

Soon I began to connect the dots between traumatic events. The recurring theme in my life was rejection; as the theme recycled itself in all my significant relationships, a pattern of thoughts and resulting behaviors emerged.

Eventually I began to see what was hidden behind all my feelings and all my actions. My counselor would ask what I thought or believed about a situation, and I’d answer honestly. But the honest answers coming out of my mouth were not the beliefs I publicly profess. They were secret beliefs I’d never acknowledged–not openly, and often not even consciously. It turns out those hidden beliefs rule me.

It’s strange how suddenly and unexpectedly so much became so clear. Among the realizations was that I’ve never had a healthy, loving relationship. I used to trust; not anymore. I’ve never experienced fidelity. I’ve never known acceptance without contingency. I’m surprisingly, vehemently angry about it. That anger has been smoldering beneath the surface so long that it was just part of me, like my limbs or my brown skin. Except that sometimes it would flare up and surprise me.

So how could my life so far have prepared me for the God who is supposed to be a loving father, husband and friend? One who accepts me as I am and loves me with no strings attached? One who won’t hurt me or use me, or ignore me until I go away?

I don’t believe it.

I love God so much! But I don’t entirely trust him. And how can he love me when I feel this way? I don’t know how to hope or anticipate or believe my life can be anything but what it’s always been.

June 7, 2009

Friday night I spent time with a group of Christian women and got to participate (though my input was minimal) in a phenomenal conversation about sex and marriage. I went to bed unaffected, but I woke up Saturday morning filled with sadness, regret. The sweet and precious joy my friend will have, that so many women in that room had, is something I threw away. My rash decision is impacting my life all these many years later.

To top things off, that night I watched a movie that awakened in me a sleeping giant of anger and bitterness. (Well … the giant had been taking a restless nap. It was sleeping with one eye open. It was pretending to be asleep.)

I have never had a relationship with a man who was faithful to me. Not my father: I haven’t seen or heard from him in more than 33 years. Not my step-father: I never felt acknowledged or accepted by him. And not the men with whom I’ve shared my most personal self. All these were the men to whom I had entrusted my heart and life and being.

Wasn’t I ever of value to any one of them? It is horrible to realize, to acknowledge, that the answer is no.

Last night I was finally able to just admit to myself that I am bitter. I am in so much daily emotional pain and so weighed down by bitterness that these feelings seem entirely normal. I don’t know how it feels to be without them. They’re an inseparable part of me. Like my limbs, or my brown skin.

Those men saw me as a means to an end: Just one female among many hundreds of females, serving no purpose but to satisfy an immediate need.

Yet as a woman–as a wife and mother, and now as a Christian–I have been entrusted with the responsibility to minister respect, honor, servanthood and submission to my husband. I am also to model these things to my sons and daughters. I’m failing miserably. How can I be that woman? I want to, but all I have is this armor of anger and bitterness. I don’t know how to put it down. I don’t think my muscles and joints know how to move in such a strange way.

Of course, there’s God. The Bible says he’s different than men. He’s faithful and loving; he’s my father and my husband and my friend. These are good things. I know God is good.

But I feel like he sees me the same way as every other significant man I’ve known.

If not for the covering of Jesus’ blood, I’d be one indistinguishable dead body in a mass grave. A ragged tangle of muddy arms and legs and faceless faces, like those horrible pictures from Nazi concentration camps. Instead I’m one person in a living, moving crowd of arms and legs and faceless faces in the World that God So Loves. As an individual, I have nothing to offer, no intrinsic value. When God’s eyes roam to and fro over the earth, they skip right over me.

This me, unembellished, is not enough. Add to all this ordinary shabbiness the fact that I’m bitter and angry, and I’m utterly useless.

I know what the Bible says, okay. I know that my heart is lying to me. But this is just … where I am right now.