Donna's WOMANISH! Musings

When I Have Lived the Final Chapter

2011-01-22T14:00:00.000-08:00

In March, 1983. The young woman said, as she handed me a bouquet of flowers, “We are just ordinary people.” I have often thought about that remark, because as she said it, I thought, “We are just ordinary people, too.” This was the beginning of a twenty year chapter in the lives of two very ordinary people, a pastor and his wife, a chapter called ministry and marriage, husband and pastor, life and death. The chapter closed on January 2, 2003 when my husband, down at the church to complete his sermon for the first Sunday of that New Year, suddenly passed away. The End. Twenty-five years marriage, twenty years ministry.

What do you do when you read the last chapter in a book? Well, if it is a single work of fiction, you go back over the story in your mind, reflect on the text and the characters, and then you move on to the next book. If it is a book in a series of books, you think on the text and the characters, and then move on to the next book in the series.

And so it has been with my life after the death of my husband. I look back to the history, the ministry and the marriage and I think on those things, kind of like re-reading the last chapter, but I also realize that this new chapter is not a continuation of that chapter. It is a new chapter titled “The New Normal,” a new history in the making for me.

I wrote my way through that first year of the new chapter of this book “The New Normal” and the word God gave to me as a tag line for each essay I shared with my sisters was, “His grace is still sufficient.” Now, most believers are familiar with this text, Paul’s thorn, Paul’s request, God’s denial, God’s promise, “My grace is sufficient.” I thought I truly understood this text until I did a more recent bible study on 2 Corinthians 12 and through a word study learned that when God said, “My grace is sufficient,” the word He was giving to Paul, and ultimately to me and you, is “I will be your support on a shaky foundation; you will not sink beneath the burden of this trial, my grace will stand between you and this challenge. So, when God follows this declaration with the assertion that His strength is made perfect in weakness, what He is saying to us is that the strength I give to you is more completely revealed when you recognize, acknowledge and experience this inability to effect change in your challenges, aka weakness.

Now that I have read that final chapter of “Ministry and Marriage,” and continue to write upon the pages of this new chapter of the book called “The New Normal,” my goal is to now remind my sisters that no matter what you find yourself going through, God’s burden bearing grace is still sufficient. The chapter in the book, “The New Normal,” has already been ordained by God. That last chapter prepared me for this new chapter that will contain the record of my challenges and His triumphs, weaknesses and His grace. It will be so with every challenge that comes our way, each level of challenge moves us to the next level of challenge, as we, indeed, move from glory to glory.

When you have read the last chapter of life and whether it ends with death of a loved one or a relationship, or relocation or disappointment or heartbreak, look back on that history, reflect and learn, but move on to the next chapter. Embrace it and remember that not only is God’s grace still available, it is most certainly still sufficient.

Today, I am still just ordinary people, but in this new normal “His grace still amazes me.”

2011-01-22T09:35:00.001-08:00

2010 was a year of distraction for me; challenges sprang up on every side. As a result, I have not had the opportunity to maintain my blogs as would have liked. I am back with a plan. Saturday will be my writing and publishing day. God has been so gracious as to allow me the blessing of a new year and I will not procrastinate on the assignments He has given to me. We can so often get sidetracked by life and forget to keep the main thing the main thing. The first three months of this year are filled with ministry opportunities and I cannot falter at this stage of the game. I do not have a slogan for 2011, as in "Moving towards Heaven in 2011," or something to that effect. I just remember Jeremiah 29;11-13, and though God was talking to a captive Israel, I just believe He is also talking to a captive Donna who has been in bondage to her circumstances and has forgotten the words she embraced so long ago, "If the Son, therefore, shall make you free, you shall be free indeed!" Praise God for His freedom.

SEEK YE FIRST!

2009-09-14T15:46:00.000-07:00

I tracked it like a predator tracking its prey. I had seen it on television and knew it would only be a matter of time before it would show up in the local Walgreen’s. I became the hunter gatherer. At least once a week I would go into Walgreen’s and stalk the “As Seen On TV” section, hoping that I would find it between the superb pancake maker, the fantastic hair remover potion, the extraordinary porcelain restorer, the miraculous oxygen cleanser, the profound space preserver, and the powerful portable hand held sewing machine. Alas, for almost a month I returned home from the hunt empty handed.

Then, one Sunday, after dinner with the in-laws, I stop at Walgreen’s on my way home. I was shopping for something else, but on my way to the check out counter I glance over at that section. I scan each level, bottom to top, hoping against hope. Then, there, on the top shelf, could it be? Yes, there it is; the prey is in sight! I gasp, blink a couple of times and adjust my vision. Slowly, as I keep my eye on the prize, I quietly walk over to the section, reach up to the top shelf and grasp it firmly in hand. Eureka! At last, victory! I rush back to the check out counter.

The clerk scans my trophy, then asks, “What is it?” I quietly explain that having seen it on television, I decided that this was something I needed. She looks around, then in a conspiratorial whisper asks me, “Where did you find it?” I point to the section and in my best sotto voce voice I say, “At the top.” She looks over to the section, passes me my prize, and says, “Ohhh, I’d better get one right now.”

I drive home excited and pleased with the tenacity that has resulted in my bringing home this prize. The next day, as I watch “The Price Is Right” with my husband, I pull out my prize and begin to put it to work, smiling and humming to myself. My husband sits at the foot of the bed, and glances back at me from time to time, but says nothing. My daughter, who who is not working today, walks into our bedroom and sits down at the head of our bed. Between comments about the dumb bids of the contestants, she also watches me, but says nothing. . .for a while. Happily oblivious to their mounting curiosity, I continue to whistle and work and congratulate myself on my prize and my productivity.

Finally, my daughter can stand it no longer. “Mama, what is that?” I proudly hold up my blue trophy and announce that it is a “Flip and Fold”.

“A what?” She looks at me rather strangely. My husband looks back at us but says nothing.

“A Flip and Fold. This little baby is going to help me organize my closets and shelves.” I point proudly to the shirts I have just flip folded, a crisp tower of perfectly folded garments.

“Look at this, clean sharp lines, magnificently folded, just like in a department store. Saves space too.”

My daughter, who manages a retail store, responds: “We just use cardboard.”

I consider the statement for a moment, then reply, “I suppose I could have made one of these out of cardboard.” A pall begins to form over my folding happiness. But when I place my finished product on a shelf and stand back to admire the symmetry, I think, “Na-aah!”

I tell my daughter, “You ought to buy one of these for your store, just $14.99 at Walgreen’s. It would be a lot quicker.”

I hope she will catch my enthusiasm as I return to my whistling and working and folding. I am happy; it doesn’t get much better than this. I am oblivious to the laughter of my daughter and my husband.

Hmmmm. I think I feel a life lesson coming on.

I wonder, how is it that a $14.99 novelty item can get me so worked up while the ransom of Christ no longer excites me as it once did?

How can I get so excited about the inconsequential things of this life, put all my time and energy into acquiring stuff while too often overlooking the eternal hope that is in in Christ Jesus?

Why have my needs and wants become greater than this great salvation, and how is it that it is so easy for me to neglect (be careless with, make light of) this great salvation, leaving it wanting while I seek the things of this temporal realm?

Yes, I know, if I have believed the gospel, confessed, believed, and received the gospel, I have not ignored (neglected) the greater salvation (versus the law), but where do I stand now in the light of the gospel? Am I neglecting the work God planned in advance for me; am I working out my salvation with fear and trembling?

My “Flip and Fold” has three steps I must follow to achieve a crisply folded shirt or towel. If I follow the sequence, the finished product will turn out as promised by the manufacturer.

My growth in Christ has three steps. If I follow the sequence, obedience-comittment-sacrifice (deny, take up cross, follow), the finished product (me) will come out as promised by the manufacturer (mature believer).

It is amazing the things the Father uses to teach me a lesson.

No Root of Bitterness

2009-06-25T08:55:00.000-07:00

We must take care not to let bitterness take root in our souls. It is easy for we mere mortals to give in to the side effects of life, the despair and anger that come with disappointments, abandonment, persecution, neglect, etal. Our dreams go down the drain of deferral; our expectations are trampled beneath the feet of apathy and disinterest. In our distress, we reflexively nurture our pain and rehearse our misery until we harvest a crop of bitterness that spills over into our everyday actions and reactions. We succumb to our heartache and begin to see everything through bitterness-tinted lenses. I think it is time to check out our profession of faith. If we truly believe that God is who He says He is and that He can do what He says He can do, then why aren’t we, more often, casting all our care on Him simply because we know He cares for us?

Bitterness is pervasive and invasive. Bitterness keeps us living out our Past in the Present. Bitterness erodes our hope and trust and ultimately we begin to measure every act by every person by our bitterness slide rule. Bitterness demands perfection until, finally, very few people can live up to our expectations. Bitterness takes our focus off of El Shaddai and puts it back on "me, myself and I." We love to proclaim Philippians 4:13 but until we actually begin to practice what we preach, that we can not only do but also endure all things through the One who is our strength, bitterness will continue to taunt us. So, what shall we say to these things? I'm just asking. . .

Great Gain!

2009-05-26T10:24:00.000-07:00

I was casually listening to a radio bible study as I drove toward my next errand. The speaker was expounding on the scripture 1 Timothy 6:6, "Godliness with contentment is great gain." Now I am familiar with this scripture; I have heard it before, but this time it resonated in my mind. Godliness and contentment? What a great premise. Most believers are certainly in the pursuit of godliness, but what about this contentment thing? I think we too often are focused so much on doing the right thing that we become subject to inner turmoil and chaos that belies our profession of faith because we are not pursuing contentment as well. Contentment may be a hard earned consequence of our faith, but I believe that such a state is available to each and every believer.

Paul declares in Philipians 4:11, “Whatever state. . . I have learned to be content.” This statement, in my view, now raises the question, “How do I learn to be content? The JFB Commentary defines the word content, as used in this text, as "having a sufficiency in one's self" independent of others.” What is this sufficiency? Well, it certainly is not my turning to my own strength of heart and mind, but it is rather my trusting God’s divine plan for my life and choosing to accept my life as it is, not focusing on what’s missing or what is not in place, but rather trusting God for every provision as I pursue Him daily. To do this, I must acknowledge, daily, that God can fill every void in my life be it body, soul or spirit.

The past six years or so have certainly been a learning curve for me, having to trust God in a new season as the familiar fell away. Materially there has been no great gain, but spiritually I have grown and I am stronger, wiser and so much better (Sing Marvin!). I do not beleive it is ever God’s intent to destroy us with the winds of adversity and life's unexpected challenges and pitfalls, but adversity does offer us the opportunity to pursue God with an absolute trust that His will shall absolutely prevail in our lives. When I do make godliness and contentment my daily focus, I gain a greater insight into His love for mankind, and for me. I hear so many testimonies about how God “brought me through,” or “brought me over,” or “kept me safe.” Wouldn’t it be wonderful to hear about contentment in the storm, and peace in the valley as we wait for God's divine intervention? Godliness with contentment, to recognize God as El Elyon, Jehovah Sabaoth and El Shaddai and then realize that there is no need for discontent or dismay, is certainly great gain. What a thought!

Rhema Word #2: A Certain Uncertainty

2009-04-30T07:34:00.001-07:00

Oswald Chambers calls it a "certain uncertainty." It is that state of faith in which we are certain God can solve and resolve everything even as we find ourselves in a state of suspended animation, that place of uncertainty where we are unsure as to just how, and when, God will solve or resolve our stuff.

We want to know everything about our future, the who, what, where, why, when and how of our lives. We live in a perpetual state of anxiety as we try to peer into into our futures with the notion that we can wrestle it into submission to our will and expectations.

Let's just think about this for a moment. If we can trust our eternity to the sacrifice of one man through the behest of a heavenly Father who loved and loves us beyond our wildest imaginations and now that we are sealed to the day of redemption, can we not also trust that same Godhead with our future, with the rest of our lives? Isn't the promise of all things working together for our good more than enough?

Chambers writes: ". . . When we have the right relationship with God, life is full of spontaneous, joyful uncertainty and expectancy . . . Leave everything to Him and it will be gloriously and graciously uncertain how He will come in -- but you can be certain that He will come. Remain faithful to Him."
It is glorious, indeed!
Romans 8:16-39

A Rhema #1: "And They Continued . . . "

2009-03-23T13:30:00.000-07:00

The visiting pastor, the speaker of the hour for our pastor’s appreciation program, took his text from Acts 2:42-43-46. I love this passage of scripture because it underscores for me the importance of fellowship within the church, the things we should have in common with one another and the connection that should be in place in our local assemblies. The subject the pastor presented to us from this text was “And They Continued.” It was the exact word that not only I needed but a word that seemed to resonate in the minds and hearts of the people in attendance.

“And they continued. . .”

As we look at this particular text, we begin to understand the standard that is being set for us by this first century church. Those new believers continued in the teaching of the apostles. They continued to share, practically and spiritually, with one another, to partner with one another in the pursuit of holiness and the edification of one another. They continued to partake of Communion together; they prayed together. They looked out for the needs of the body and if they had the means to meet the needs, they did not hesitate (“all things in common”) to give, selling their possessions in order that others would not suffer. Certainly this is a challenge to today’s church, to measure our “fellowship” against the standards established in this fledgling church. But this was not the only challenge the pastor presented to us. He challenged us to think about the direction of our lives today even as we show up to church every Sunday.

I have to ask myself, Has Donna continued in the fellowship or did she drop out from time to time, simply because she wasn't feeling it? “In what has Donna continued since she first knelt at the foot of the cross and confessed Jesus as Savior and Lord? Has her faith continued to grow in spite of the obstacles to it, or did she falter along the way when it looked like God had forgotten her place. Has she continued in those old thought patterns that put her needs first, ego driven desires that ignored the needs and hurts of her fellow believers, or has she learned “It’s not about me?” Has Donna continued in old habits, reverted to old responses and reactions when someone stepped on her toes, inadvertent or intentional (though my perception is often the injury is intentional). Has Donna been that good example of the one who is determined to follow Jesus daily, or has her witness, her negative witness, tainted the lives of others, especially those spiritual babes who are still on the milk of the word regardless of how long they have been in the church.

Life, as Langston Hughes writes, has not been a crystal stair for me or for many others. There have been torn places in the carpet and splinters and the climb has not always been easy, but in spite of these challenges, I have always been able to count on a sister or a brother to bring me a revelation, a confirmation or an encouraging word from God that He has not forgotten me. Sometimes the individual doesn’t even know how God has used them to move me out of my spiritual lethargy or weariness. Still, had these individuals not continued in the fellowship, in the pursuit of God and the edification of the body, it is very likely I would never have received God’s note of encouragement.

In spite of the fact that the years have passed by quickly, and are gaining speed even as I write, I want to be all that God is calling me as a member of His family and of the local assembly into which He has placed me. I invite you to join me in this Federation of the Saints as we continue to follow Jesus daily.

“And they continued. . .”

What a wonderful testimony to the faith of a people who were the very first to believe in God’s love and the power of redemption.

I Wonder As I Wander Pt. 1

2009-03-05T12:28:00.000-08:00

I am feeling blah, blah, blah today. Blah, blah, blah and a just a little disconnected. I often rummage around in my head for those reasons as to why I feel the way I do when the blahs show up. After all these years I still have no answer for these unwelcome visitors. Maybe it's hormones. Maybe it a flu bug launching an attack against my immune system. Maybe it's too much busyness and not enough sleep. Maybe it's everything and maybe it's nothing at all. How, then, do I pull myself out of this pit full of blahs? This is a fantastic question to which I have absolutely no answer, but I know someone who does. His name is El Roi, He who sees all things and neither slumbers nor sleeps. An ever-present help at all times, our God can lift us up out of that pit to bring us back to a place of equilibrium and balance, a place where hope continues to reign and faith is the path upon which we walk. This also requires a conscious effort on our part to forget those things that are behind us and to keep pressing our way through all the stuff that life may throw at us. We must think on those things that keep us focused on the will and way of God. We have to think our way to faith, thinking on the promises of God while looking unto Jesus who is still the author and the finisher of our faith. Instead of rummaging around in my head for a rationale for my blahs, I instead must look beyond the hills to tap into the help that is always available to His children in spite of the blahs.

Staying the Course

2009-02-26T11:48:00.001-08:00

I just realized I have been coasting through life for the past six years. My husband died six years ago and I have been sleep-walking through my days, flying by the seat of my pants and not really connecting with anything that was previously a part of my former life, my life before death. Oh, don't get me wrong, I have handled the things I needed to handle but I have not been diligent or organized about life in general; I have been more reactive than proactive, accepting those things dished out to me rather than taking charge of my destiny (as much as such a thing is possible.)

I come to this revelation not by divine intervention (or perhaps it is by by divine intervention), but rather through another life style change. I moved in with my elderly aunt, the goal being to provide some security for her and an opportunity for me to save some money in these financially challenged times. I came to this place with no expectation for anything other than to live out these days pretty much the way I have for the last six years, wake up, go to work, return home, go to bed, wake up, etc., etc., etc. Yes, this is what I expected but instead, because of the move, I have taken on the responsibility of establishing a daily routine for my aunt which includes the oversight of her part-time caregiver. I rise early to catch two buses to work in the city and return late to walk right into the kitchen to prepare dinner for me, the left-overs from which become the next day meal for my aunt (so that she can eat by six o'clock). I am back to grocery shopping and cooking a full meal for Sunday on Saturday evenings, tasks I have not consistently done in a long while. I do not have the convenience of a dishwasher so I am now the every night dish washer. Last Friday I stacked stuff by the curb for bulk trash pick-up, stuff that should have been thrown away ages ago and on Saturday morning responded to the complaint of the rude man who felt compelled to ring the doorbell and advise me that I had put it all in the wrong spot (they took it anyway). I dealt with the gardner who has probably just been doing his thing with no supervision, asked him to remove the pile of dead leaves near the back fence, to cut down the tall grass on the side of the house and to trim back the bushes alongside the driveway. I am learning how to respond to my aunt in such a manner that does not cause her to obsess over and over about a missing item or the day of the week or some such thing that can quickly become a fixation. I silently observe her and speculate on my own future as I note the woman who is missing and the woman-child she has become. I think about the things I now do for her, physical things and practical things I could not do for my late mother because of distance, she in Texas, me in California. I am tired, but the weariness has rousted the lethargy that has been mine for six years, an ironic twist I must admit.

It is by God's grace that I come to this revelation and realization. I have been marking time, waiting for something to happen, something to change. It was not a conscious marking of time, just a slow erosion of purpose and determination. I have no doubt that there are unforseen challenges ahead. God is preparing me, now, for what is to come. God has wired me, indeed all of us baby boomers, for better things, greater things, in our latter years. We must not despise the challenge of the course. We must keep our eye on the prize and hold on.

Looking Back In Order to Move Forward!

2009-02-03T11:37:00.000-08:00

“Daddy, what color does a person have to be to get a taste of colored water?

The head librarian of the library in which I work does not like this picture book, “A Taste of Colored Water” by Matt Faulkner. She does not like the book illustrations and she thinks that that last line of the book leaves the reader hanging, perhaps wanting more than this final word.

I say, “I guess you have to have been raised African American in the Jim Crow South to understand the impact of the word ‘colored.’”

“Oh, I get it, “ she responds, “but the book just doesn’t work for me.”

I do not bother to tell her, my Caucasian counterpart, that the line almost brought me to tears when I read it to the third grade class.

Synopsis of the book: Two Caucasian cousins in a small town hear from a classmate that there is a water bubbler (water fountain) in the city marked “Colored.” The cousins are fascinated by, and marvel at the idea of colored water and wonder how they can get to the city to drink from this mystical fountain. The irony of this story, aside from their desire to drink from the colored water fountain, is that the fountain is on the grounds of City Hall and the two children will have to walk between the words “Truth” and “Justice” that are carved into stone blocks to get to the fountain. Fate intervenes and the children do get to the city. They rush up to that marvelous water fountain, but there are other things happening that day, things that involve people waving placards and singing freedom songs and fire hoses and policemen attached to snarling police dogs. The water fountain is atop a hill and the girl cousin looks down and notices the interaction of the police and the protesters. Suddenly the water no longer holds her attention; she shouts, “Stop! Stop! – but [her] throat was so dry, and [she] started to feel dizzy, like a nest of hot bees was swarming in [her] head.” A policeman intervenes before the boy cousin can sip from the fountain, shouting, “Get away from there boy! That water ain’t for you. It’s for coloreds!”

I grew up colored in the Jim Crow south. I hated being colored. No, not colored as in I hated being Negro. I hated that word colored, the negative connotation and the way it rolled off the tongues of the majority culture in my small town. There was nothing marvelous or mystical about being colored in the south. The appellation separated you from the “real” people and singled you out as different. It devalued you and marked you as a non-entity in a society that took pride in individuality and non-conformity.

Never underestimate the power of a single word. Colored has the same effect on me today as it did all those years ago in my small north Texas town. It ranks alongside being asked by a sales clerk “May I help you girls? “ It rankles and it irritates and it shoves me back into a place that’s narrow and dark and bitter. "Colored," such an innocuous word, devoid of morality or moral, and yet it has the power to transport me back to a time when I felt the weight of the color of my skin each and every day.

Change has come to America, but it just takes one word to remind me that due diligence is in order if we are ever going to overcome the consequences of prejudice and racism and the power of one word.

“Daddy, what color does a person have to be to get a taste of colored water?”

Living Black and Loving It: Lift Every Voice and Sing!

2009-01-22T11:31:00.000-08:00

“What will you do with today?”

This question came to me as I thought on the events of this week. I pulled up the shade of my past and thought of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. the people, the suffering, and the struggles he represents. I considered the shutters of my future, a future of hope personified in the person and the persona of President Barack H. Obama.

I look into the faces of young people and see the joy of youth; I hear their laughter as they walk through school hallways or down city streets. I wonder, as I watch them, “What will you do with Today?”

I try to remember what it was like to be their age, but the cacophony of time has muted my youthful voice, still I can almost hear the whispers of my mother, my teachers, my community, and my ancestors who were torn away from their history and transported into a future full of unknowns, “What will you do with Today?”

Will you dare to be different? Will you choose the road not taken? Will you climb the rough side of the mountain? Will you come alongside to walk with that one who is labeled “outcast?” Will you speak to the one others shun? Will you practice genuine tolerance?

“What will you do with Today?”

A voice from my past, the voice of Robert F. Kennedy, parallels my question: “Some people see things as they are and ask ‘Why?’” I see things as they could be and ask ‘Why not?”

Why not dream the impossible dream? Why not pursue excellence? Why not push yourself beyond your limitations or the expectations of others? Why not accept that challenge to be better, to do better?

I noted the history in the crowd at the inauguration. The Tuskegee Airmen who so long ago dared to soar above the surly attitudes of those who said they did not have the intellect or the physical skill to become pilots. I watched John Lewis stand, he who was one of the Big Six during the Civil Rights movement, a young man who headed SNCC (Student Nonviolent Coordination Committee) and worked alongside Dr. King during those days of tumult and resistance. I heard the sacred intonation of a beloved song in the prayer of an old warrior and I asked myself, “What will you do with Today?”

Langston Hughes asks, “What happens to a dream deferred?” I now realize that dream deferral does not mean dream denial. Dreams deferred are sometimes just dreams on hold. Deferred dreams are nurtured and protected by a dreamer who dares to labor in faith over them each and every day without a clue as to when, or if, they will come to pass. Sustained by hope, deferred dreams lie dormant until the time is right for them to bloom and blossom. No, Dream Deferral is not Dream Denial.

"What will you do with Today?"

Living Black and Loving It, Again

2009-01-13T16:02:00.000-08:00

"I have never been so naive as to believe that we can get beyond our racial divisions in a single election cycle." The struggle for racial justice is far from over.” Barack Obama

I discovered this quote just a few days ago. In light of my last blog about the expected “change” in the America psyche about race and race issues, I also expressed my concerns about how things will not change overnight. I am glad to see that Mr. Obama also realizes that the desire for change can happen in a nano-second, but the process of change will take just a teeny bit longer.

Living Black in America is a two-edged sword. One edge speaks to the delights of our culture, the sweet nuances of our language and the laughter of older women who whisper secrets to one another over sweet potato pie and coffee in a girlfriend’s kitchen, the swagger of the older brothers who jump sharp on Saturday p.m. in their pointy toed Stacy Adams shoes with their snap-brimmed hats jauntily tipped to one side as they lean against the counter of the local juke joint while their Sunday go-to-meeting saintly wives head for church Sunday a.m. swathed in fur cuffed suits with those dramatically glorious hats that bring their own drama perched on perfectly coiffed heads. I love living Black in America and I love living it out loud in the midst of my people.

I want to shout like Sister Sue over in the corner who is so overcome by the fervor of the moment that she does not remember later that she had to be extracted from between the pews where she fell after she passed out. I want to dance up and down the center aisle of the church until I have to kick off my shoes LaBelle style and wait for the ushers to escort me out of the sanctuary so I can catch my breath (or stick a shoe under my nose to revive me). I want to eat black-eyed peas on New Year’s Day with gumbo as a side dish. I want to laugh until I cry with my sister-girlfriends even if that laughter is tinged with heartache. I want to passionately kiss a man until we both have to come up for air. I want to wear the bright colors and all the bling my wrists can bear and my ears can hold. I want to step into a conference room in all my ethnic confidence and then astound the skeptical gathering with my knowledge and expertise. I just love living Black.

But there is the other edge of that sword to think about. The edge that has shamed us with a history that was not of our making, the edge that has made us fill less-than even as the economy of a nation was being built on our backs. This edge of the sword has sliced away and denied me my humanity. The tip of the sword has pointed out the texture of my hair and the color of my skin and has dared to make me ashamed of both. I have been forced by prevailing stereotypes to act against type when in the company of the majority culture so that my race is not stigmatized by my individual choices. This edge of the sword drew a line in the sand of democracy and dared me to step over it. The weight of my color is ever present when I am the only person of color in a meeting or a conference or a restaurant. I am aware of the dichotomy of democracy as I see my young brothers hanging out on the corner in the middle of the day, when I hear my young sisters angrily use obscenities that were never spoken in my presence back in the day and even then only old men used such language. I note the despair and the anger and the decimation of a culture and I feel the pain of the sword’s edge that condemns me for daring to be Black in America. This is also what living Black in America is all about. This is the part I hate.

The desire for change has always been a present and persistent hope in our community. Mr. Obama declared, “Change has come to America.” It remains to be seen how long it will take for change to overtake and vanquish the nasty consequences of living Black in America. Sam Cooke sang it in the 60s and Seal reiterated it in this millennium, "Change gone come." It can't come soon enough for me. I've been waiting a long time for change to show up. I anticipate its appearance any day now, but while I am waiting, I will love every exciting, exasperating, and exhilirating moment of living Black in America.

Living Black and Loving It: Part One

2008-12-29T14:39:00.000-08:00

They tell me that Sam Cook's proverbial and prophetic change has come to America via the election of Mr. Obama. I hear that the almost 400 years of deprivation, marginalization and disfranchisement is at long last coming to a close because America has finally elected a black man as President of the United States of America.

I am excited to hear the news, really I am. A black man is going to live in the White House! Wow! But even more Wow! than this mind boggling fact is the reality that a black woman is going to be the First Lady of the land! Does this now mean that the black woman will become the woman to validate the guest list of every simpering socialite? Will we become the women to watch and emulate (as if this were not already happening) simply because we favor (as in we look like her) our First Lady?

A thought that is a little worrisome, however, is the notion that we African American women will now have to be the standard bearer for our First Lady , and what if we drop the ball and do something dumb or ill-mannered and the effect is immediately translated to the First Lady of the land? What will I do then? After all, I have spent most of my life making sure I did nothing that would warrant the continuation of a stereotype; what am I to do now that my race and my gender is even more subject to the scrutiny of the masses?

Living Black in America comes replete with an unwritten compendium of regulations and by-laws and rules of conduct and good manners for those moments when we find ourselves in the presence of the majority culture, none of which are set in stone tablets anywhere. Nevertheless, most of my generation, as well as the generations that came before me and passed the image torch on to me, know the "shoulds" and the "oughts" of good behavior and living Black in America.

The older women who raised me (the village mentality was very much intact during my coming-of-age years) were always neatly kempt and tastefully stylish. They may have worn uniforms to clean Miz Anne's house, but those uniforms were always crisply and starchily pressed. Every tightly wound, hard pressed curl and every stringently marcelled wave was neatly in place and the red lipstick (that always turned orange on us) stayed put even in the heat of the kitchen.

Perhaps it was the constraint of the weekly white uniform that dictated the dramatic dress of Sundays. I remember my grandmother's faux hair, a length 0f curled hair (real or not, I do not know) that was attached to a band of elastic which she would slip onto her head and then comb her hair over it to blend the two. To handle the recalcitrant gray at her temples, she would use a black stick made of what I do not know to cover those unruly strands. It never seemed to occur to her that the goo she applied to her edges would eventually succumb to the sweltering summer heat of south central Texas to liquify into black rivulets of sweat that ran down the sides of her face.

Yes, Sunday meant dress-up and the cost of a black woman getting herself together to enter into the presence of the Lord was never too expensive or too demanding or too strenuous.

I can still "see" my mother on many a hot summer Sunday morning wrestling herself into long-line bras and latex saturated girdles. This main event of the morning was usually followed by the putting on of make-up which would then go into battle with the rapidly rising temperature usually resulting in another full application after the donning of the di regeur Sunday suit. A hat was always carefully and stylishly set upon her head, whereupon she would then hustle us into the car (if we hadn't already walked ourselves to Sunday school) to get to church and congregate with all the stylish mavens of our Baptist Ekklesia. How these women managed not to swoon somewhere between the long-winded and rote prayers of the deacons and the whooping histrionics of the pastor is definitely a mystery.

No, denomination was not a divider when it came to Sunday morning style (unless you were of the Pentecostal persuasion and eschewed fancy dress, lipstick, powder and paint, those ancient trappings of the vile Jezebel, that wicked manipulator of King Ahaz and persecutor/prosecutor of the prophet Elijah); most of the good sisters of my southern community always dressed to the nines on Sunday.

But I digress, greatly. Change is here so I hear and we African Americans should be excited, nay, hysterical with ecstasy and unbridled joy. The long night is over! But I am a little bit concerned about this cultural leap into positive change, so I have a question. How long will it take my cultural eyes to adjust to the light of this new day? Can I really step into the sunshine of change and quickly shake the dust of the collective past of my people from my weary feet?

Have I, have we, truly overcome?

Happy Birthday to Me

2008-11-24T15:46:00.000-08:00

Another birthday showed up this morning at 8:00 a.m., right on time just like the first time.

"Good morning, Donna. I am your new age."

"Really? You know, you really don't look that old."

"I know, I know. I guess you have to thank that ancestral gene pool of yours."

"Well, I am grateful that there are very little cracks in my facade, but my knees do complain every now and then that the years have not been very kind to them."

"Ah well; you win a few and you lose a few."

"Yes indeed; still of this one thing I am very sure; every birthday, each new day is God's gift to me."

The years prior to my eighteenth birthday crawled by like molasses running down a snow covered mountain on a December morning in northern Alaska. The years after my eighteenth birthday have sped by like melted molasses running down a red hot griddle at 12:00 noon on the fourth of July in the middle of Death Valley.

I can almost hear the Clark Sisters singing in the background, "Is my living in vain?" On this the anniversary of my birth I am almost compelled to ask myself if I have lived up to my potential, that potential wired into me by the most High God. And have I grown too long in the tooth to keep up the pursuit of honor and glory for Him? Is it now my season to settle into the Titus 2 woman phase as I wait for the twilight years to diminish, fade and eventually go out?

I suppose I just might be just a tad overly sensitive to the subject of age these days, but it seems to me that the message the world sends to anyone who is blessed enough to hit a certain age plateau is "Your time has passed; your period of usefulness is over; find your rocking chair, take your seat and sit down." Whatever happened to the idea that the wisdom which comes with age and experience is a valuable resource?

Ageism is too often painted in the feminine and women are almost taught to despise the laugh lines and the gray roots, that such natural transitions are a sign of diminished value and the bodies that carried and birthed children are now targets of ridicule for the stretch marks and additional pounds. Even menopause works against us as it deposits that extra weight around our waists so that while we might celebrate the cessation of one season, we now have to struggle to vanquish its rude consequence.

I had an epiphany a few nights ago (perhaps prompted by the fast approaching birthday). I have undervalued myself, have deemed myself "not special," so much so that I have gone into relationships with no expectations of reciprocal grace and have accepted whatever was handed down to me. I have accepted the left-overs of friendships and the oversights of those who professed to love me. I have not expected people to like me simply because I always saw others as "greater than." I have no idea how I got to this place, but I do know (even at this stage of the game) that I no longer want to reside in this mindset.

Paul writes to us, in the book of Romans, that we should not think more highly of ourselves than we ought. I hear Paul and I understand his point; I am not all that and a bag of chips, but I also understand now that if I do not treasure myself, how in the world can I expect others to treasure me?

"Is my living in vain? No, of course not!"

I may have wasted some precious time along the way denying my worth to the kingdom of God, but I am even more determined to live up to the promise He planted in me for my good and His glory. It may take me a while these days to get from point A to point B, but complaining knees notwithstanding, I will continue to press my way. And I do have sense enough to know that each new day is a blessing . . . in spite of gray roots, laugh lines and stiffening knees.

Just Another Sunday in the City

2008-10-01T14:18:00.000-07:00

It is not my intent to offend anyone, but the following has a place in this blog:

I hate this *!?@ place. I should kick your *!*#, you *!#

We walked through the front door and stepped into utter chaos. McDonald's in the 'hood on a Sunday afternoon. Apparently the counter crew had offended a group of young people, mostly young girls about thirteen or fourteen years of age. One girl in particular was leading the attack, spewing profanities like a second language while the others would add their "amen's" intermittently. My friend and I stood there dumbfounded that such a cacophony of vulgarity was being aimed at the people behind the counter in the presence of adults dressed like church folk. The kids also threw in a few threats of bodily harm, as well. My friend turned to comment to me about the ruckus about the same time the ring leader was walking past us. She heard his comments and turned to stand in front of him and stare him in the eye, child to adult male. My friend did not flinch. He instead told her, "This has nothing to do with you; I am talking to my friend." The girl huffed off, loud talking him as she rallied her posse to get out of this place "before I have to do something about people getting in my business!"

Now, I am no stranger to this kind of behavior; I live in an urban setting and I hear this kind of language on the streets quite frequently, young and old, but this time the behavior got to me and I thought about it for the rest of the day. "Lord, what can we do to turn our young people around, to save them from themselves and the negative influences that surround them? What could I have done in that moment? What should I have done?" Then it hit me and I now have a plan. The next time I find myself in a similar situation of public shouting and cursing, I think I will begin to add my voice . . . in prayer. Not about the individuals, but about the situation, that God will take control to bring about peace and even conviction. I know this may sound a little crazy to some of you, but I think it is about time we Christians lost our minds for the Lord in public too. We'll just all be crazy together, their secular crazy and my spiritual insanity. I'm just nuts enough to believe God will move if we become more fervent and adamant in our walk with Him. Of course, the thought has occurred to me that I might be the one thrown out for daring to pray in public. I'm willing to take the chance. Clothed in the armor of God, we pray for God's rule in this world. I'm ready to be His mouthpiece!

Living My Life Like It's, You Know, Golden

2008-09-02T13:14:00.000-07:00

fA little over three weeks ago, I did the stereotypical single woman Saturday night thing for dinner. I walked over to the neighborhood Safeway and brought a huge slice of chocolate fudge cake. I also bought two single-serve cups of ice cream, one Haagen-Dazs Vanilla and one Ben & Jerry’s Chocolate Fudge Brownie. I returned home with my wares, sat in the middle of my bed and enjoyed every mouthful.

It came back to me a few days later, the idea that I had spent my Saturday evening alone in my bedroom, just me and a few thousand calories. This reflection got me to thinking even further. I have not been a single woman very long, just a little over five years since my husband’s death. The first four years do not really count since I still felt married and acted like a married woman. I was not looking for a companion and apparently no one was looking for me since no one came along. In the last two years, however, I have become more sensitive to the alone moments, the times when I feel isolated and separate from the rest of the world that must be out there somewhere having a great deal of fun without me. No, I am not so naïve as to think that this is really so, but when I am alone with me, myself and I, it just feels that way. What’s a single woman to do on a Saturday night other than eat herself into sugar oblivion?

I think it is time for me to move outside of myself and reach out to the women who may feel the same way I do and just don’t know which way to turn. True enough, the world does offer alternatives, but do I really want to subject myself to everything that is a part of those alternatives, most of which do not line up with my faith? Yes, I know that I should be confident enough to go out by myself and treat myself to a dinner or a movie or a play or even a stroll on the beach without feeling self-conscious; I can and I have. Still I have to wonder if my life is just about me or is God calling me to reach out to someone else who is feeling the same pangs of “aloneness?” Has he allowed me to be alone so that I might live the lesson before I try to teach anything?

I sense a ministry growing out of my experience and not just one for single women but one for women of all ages who feel stuck in a rut and just don’t know how to get out of that rut and get on with their lives. It would be a ministry for that woman who thinks she must have a man and for that woman who has a man and wishes she didn’t. It would be a ministry for the young adult woman who wants to jump start the rest of her life and for that seasoned woman who needs a charge for the final years of her life. This ministry would be a union of the married and the unmarried, a ministry to address the social as well as the spiritual, though I don’t think that the two can or should be separate. This ministry would be a ministry that would encourage all women to come together, as our female ancestors once did, for the common good of every woman. This is, after all, a Christian edict, the idea that we should esteem others more highly than we do ourselves. Isn’t it time that we, as Jill Scott sings, help one another to live life like it's golden?

Stay tuned . . .

Dream A Little Dream With Me

2008-07-31T10:47:00.000-07:00

The dreams have troubled me a little. There are several different variations, wispy visions that have crawled into my somnolent psyche the past two weeks. They differ in content, but the theme is always the same. I am on my way to some destination, but I never reach this nebulous point; something always stops me. In the dreams I do my best to work my way through the continuous obstacles, but I wake up feeling oddly frustrated that I have not gotten “there,” wherever or whatever “there” is.

I feel a little too seasoned to still be suffering from “what is my purpose,” angst, yet I surmise this is what the dreams are all about. “Where do you want me to go, Lord, and when I get there, what do you want me to do?”

Dr. Tony Evans of the Urban Alternative asks the question, “How do you know when God is working in your life?” He then answers with this statement, “When things happen over which you have absolutely no control.” I have seen this intervention in my life, especially in the last few years, but rather than being content with God’s Providence (though I am thrilled with the path He seems to be laying out before me), I am still more than a little concerned about those matters that are still in a state of flux.

The Apostle Paul whispers in my ear: “Whatever state I am in, I have learned to be content.” How in the world does one learn to be content? Isn’t contentment a state of being rather than an act of the will? How do I chase away anxious stomach butterflies while I demand, “Donna be content”? What did Paul know that I have yet to learn?

I’m probably the last one to get this, but it seems to me, if I understand Paul at all, that contentment just has to be an act of the will through a life that is grounded in Christ (Galatians 2:20). I must choose to trust God in and through all my moments, good, bad or indifferent. This trust relies on His promises to never leave nor forsake me, that He has designed an intricate pattern for my life and I can rely on Him to bring me to that place of specificity. Anxiety can be overridden with prayer. Doubt can be trumped by faith. Fear can be vanquished with love. Purpose is founded in Christ. The dreams may persist, but since I know the Lord orders my steps, I will not fear.

“If God be for us, who [or what] can be against us?”

No one and nothing, not even our dreams.

Grandchildren Are the Best!

2008-07-22T12:29:00.000-07:00

My telephone alarm goes off at 5:30 a.m. I have not changed it from my school year wake-up alarm. I turn over to my left side and do my best to go back to sleep. Fifteen minutes later I look at the cable box on top of my television and note the time is now 5:45 a.m. (Does anyone use standard clocks anymore?) I lie on my back and mentally calculate how long I can stay in the bed (well, actually a pallet on the floor) and still have enough time to get my granddaughter (warmly ensconced in my daybed) and myself ready to catch the bus between 7:30 and 7:45 without too much stress. I decide 6:30 will work, especially since I put rollers in the back of my hair last night and will only have to curl the front. Smugly satisfied with 6:30, I fall asleep.

Have you ever made plans with a five year old in the house? This is exactly where I miscalculated my time calculation; I did not include any potential for a five year old with a Sister-Girlfriend ATTITUDE. No, she did not swivel her braided and beaded head at me, but she might as well have done so. This is our second week together. This is my first encounter with morning ATTITUDE. I am not pleased.

I wake her at 7:00 a.m. and she obligingly goes to the bathroom as I request.

“Come back and choose your clothes,” was my next directive, very proud of the fact that I have such an independent granddaughter.

I go into the bathroom to finish my morning ablutions. My electric curlers, the curlers that get hot enough for my coarse hair, have decided not to work. The little ON light keeps blinking its single red eye at me. The curlers remain cold. So much for a stylishly coiffed head of hair this morning.

Before I go downstairs to make a sandwich for my granddaughter's lunch and prepare her breakfast oatmeal, which she loves, I walk back into the bedroom to find her still in her pajamas reclining on the bedroom floor, leaning against my now rolled up pallet.

“Didn’t I tell you to get your clothes on?”

She looks up at me from under her eyes and does not move. It is as though I am speaking in tongues without a translator and she cannot receive my word of wisdom.

I sigh and encourage her again. “Put your clothes on.”

She diffidently does so, but I decide she needs a warmer top (the morning fog has chilled the air). When I pull the top over her head, she bursts into tears.

“My head hurts,” she wails as I do my best to talk her out of her cries. Her hair was just braided this past Saturday and her scalp is still tender.

“Shush, you’ll wake everyone up.”

She wails louder. I decide to ignore the wailing sobs. “Put your shoes on.”

I walk out of the bedroom. When I return, she has her flip-flops in her hands (the tears have stopped flowing).

“You can’t wear those to school; you won’t be able to play in them.”

The wails begin anew. “These sneakers are too tight!”

“Where are your other sneakers?”

“I don’t know,” is followed by a louder “Wahhhhhhhhhh.”

“I guess you left them at home.”

My stipulation to keeping her for three weeks to attend a get ready for kindergarten summer program in my city is that she spends the in-between weekends at home with her mom so I can recuperate from the energy drain. I toss clothes aside to get to the bottom of the suitcase. No white K-Swiss. Now I feel like wailing. Sensing my frustration, she raises the wailing volume a few decibels.

“Wahhhhhhhhhhhhh.”

“Put on your shoes and socks.” I pick up the too tight sneakers and hand them to her. She does so grudgingly, between sniffles and snorts.

“Put on your jacket.” I am just full of commands.

I hand her her lunch bag full of snacks and lunch and juice and everything I hope will keep her from eating me out of house and home when she returns this afternoon. I am hoping against hope. This petite five year old eats like two horses, leaving me to muse as I consider her lean frame, “Where is it going?”

My oldest daughter, her aunt, answered my befuddled question a few days ago, “Metabolism, Mama, she burns it all up.”

“ Button your jacket.”

“I don’t know how.”

So much for independence. Still, she somehow manages to button one button, the top button, a button, which I discover as we stand in front of the elevator, is in the wrong buttonhole.

“You have your jacket buttoned wrong.”

I juggle my purse, the bag that contains her nebulizer, the pouch that holds her Epipen and Benadryl and an interoffice envelope in my left hand as I reach down to unbutton and correct that top button. I manage to get two buttons done before we reach the lobby (did I mention asthma and a peanut allergy?).

We leave the house at 7:45 a.m. I am off my calculations by fifteen minutes. We are late. I hope the bus is late. It isn’t. We are halfway down the block when the bus crosses the intersection in front of us. The lights do not cooperate. I hesitate, then decide to cross against the light as an Asian woman on the sidewalk shouts encouragement, “Go, go, go.” We run for the bus (thank goodness there is a line of people waiting) as my granddaughter, her hand gripped firmly in mine, giggles all the way to the bus door as she makes up a theme song for our adventure:

“We’re running for the bus! We’re running for the bus!”

She thinks this is great fun. She has forgotten all the morning angst and is looking forward to the adventure of Today. She is not frazzled nor bedraggled or frustrated. The caterwauling is behind her. That was then; this is now.

“And a child shall lead them. . .”

Lead on, granddaughter, lead on.

Dodging Bullets

2008-07-14T09:32:00.000-07:00

I woke up this morning at 4:00 a.m. I could not get back to sleep. There is something about the early morning darkness of a bedroom that lends itself to thoughts and thinking for which the busyness of daylight has no room. Sometimes the thoughts are as dark as the room.

I have spent most of my life dodging bullets, doing my best to make sure that I do not offend or anger anyone. Most of my life I have been reluctant to ask for the things I needed and to say “no” to those things I did not like. I was content to wait and hope that someone noticed my need or me. I am only sporadically assertive and somewhere in my formative years, I must have absorbed the idea that being assertive is almost an abomination. I have always needed more than I ever asked for and I never dared to look for more than what I received. I suppose, in some passive convoluted way of thinking, I believed I would be rewarded for taking the path of least resistance when it came to my needs and my wants. I was wrong. More people have forgotten me than I care to remember (no pun intended). I have forgotten about more people than I care to remember, names that come to me in moments of vague recollections.

I guess our brains are so chock full of our to-do lists that caring about someone else is relegated to the nether-regions of our hearts in spite of our good intentions. When the word comes to us that an individual has died, we wonder why we did not call or try to connect with them when that vague recollection flitted across our minds. I have wondered this very thing more often than I would like to admit.

I suppose some people can just walk away from us without a backward glance. The frightening thing about this act is not that people can walk away from us with impunity, but that it does not even occur to them that they might have broken a heart. When they run into you on the street, they act as though they never lost your place. They do not think about silent tears or rancid loneliness or vacant need. They may not even want to see any trace of pain during those random chance encounters as they run up to you swathed in broad smiles to express their delight at seeing you once again. A few years ago someone asked, “Do you feel like I/we/they abandoned you?” While every fiber of my being wanted to scream out “Yes, yes, yes!” I instead responded, “Well, abandoned is a strong word.” I still waffle, a lot, and have a hard time expressing what I want or need, what I expect and what is uncomfortable or not right for me. I tend to diminish myself in order that others will not feel uncomfortable or offended, even when it is uncomfortable for me.

I will still sit in a restaurant and tell the waiter everything is Okay even though the dressing for my salad is not what I ordered, and I still haven’t received my water and the entre I ordered is not what I expected and I don’t like it. I still say "I’m sorry" too often when I inadvertently do something that irritates a friend or family member. I feel guilty when I have to say “No.” I can’t tell people when I feel kicked to the curb and I feel guilty for feeling kicked to the curb. Not too long ago, I was picked up at an airport by a driver who seemed irritated he had missed me when I deplaned and had to find me in baggage claim even though he had been hired by the Conference to find me. I felt guilty for not being found. “I’m sorry,” I said. “My airplane was early.” He ignored me as he grabbed up my baggage and strode off towards the limousine, leaving me to scamper behind him, trying to keep up with his rapid step. The ride from the airport to the hotel, about forty-five minutes, was excruciating as rap music screamed at me through the audio speakers. I hated it, but could not bring myself to ask the driver to turn it off even as I considered the controls of the system right above my head.

Maybe I learned to be passive, how not to make too many waves, as a child, so to compensate I became that proverbial overachiever, the hopeful people pleaser. Maybe childhood is where it happened for most of us passive personality people. It might have been that our voices were not recognized and our independence was squelched by angry and frustrated responses. Perhaps affirmation and value was not reflected back to us enough so now we spend the balance of our lives doing our utmost to make ourselves acceptable and people pleasing when the real goal is to recognize our own value. Or maybe I’m just afraid I will be rejected if I insert me into the equation. But it seems to me that this has happened anyway, even as I’ve done my best to keep me, myself and I a non-threat to the person and place of others.

Let’s face it. The majority of the people whose lives have intersected with ours in the past may never take the time to recall our name or even remember that they ever professed a care for us. And, yes, we may spend the rest of our lives trying to assert ourselves without any of that nasty concomitant guilt and repressed anger. Our family and friends may even balk when we begin to take our own needs and concerns into consideration before we acquiesce to their requests. I am not talking about selfishness or vanity, but about building healthier relationships that can only begin with an emotionally healthier me. From my view, I think that when we begin to recognize and appreciate our own worth and all that we bring to the table of life, our relationships will begin to improve exponentially, a blessing for which none of us will ever need to apologize.

The Old Gray Mare, She Ain't What She Used To Be

2008-07-11T12:18:00.000-07:00

Getting older is an interesting journey. When we are young, we spend our time dreaming about getting older; when we get older, we spend our time dreaming about being young. Are we ever satisfied with any age?

Yes, this getting older thing is an interesting journey. My roots are gray, but only my hairdresser knows for sure and my knees always hurt right before it rains. I tell the same stories over and over again to any and everyone, which makes me subject to the exasperated, “You told me already.” Now I have to ask, “Did I tell you this?” I never thought about the day when I would have anxiety attacks about missing eyeglasses. When I walk down the street, young men no longer do a double-take (they don’t do a single-take either). Still, old men do smile broadly at me on the bus or as I pass them on the street (I suppose I could count that blessing). They do their best to grab my attention as they try to whisper a word to me ("Get at me" is how the young people say it) because in their eyes (I think), I am a young woman. I talk too much about “back when I was a girl,” and sometimes I sound just like my mother (Yikes!). I just found out that older women who dare to connect with younger men are called cougars and certain colors are no longer my friends. Fashion designers and celebrity stylists want to tell me what I should and should not wear and of course I will always look much younger with short hair.

Every morning, as I get ready for work, I listen to the Channel 2 News. One morning a very toothy and animated anchor relayed a story about an older woman who was assaulted in a near-by town. As he closed out his story he referred to the woman as “the elderly woman.” What!!!! That woman and I are the same age. When did I become elderly? While it is true that I have passed certain age plateaus, does this now mean that I should go quietly into that dark night without a whimper or a sigh? Am I now consigned to the last seat in the back row of life simply because my thighs now have more jiggle than Jell-O and my upper arms have turned into wings, or that the decades are passing by a lot faster than I ever imagined? When did the mirror become my archenemy?

In spite of my rapidly passing years, or maybe because of them, I have learned a few things. After spending too many years of noticing my imperfections, I have learned to live with them. They make me who I am. There is not another me like me and I like all of me. I like my too loud laugh and my crazy sense of humor. I like that I care about people and want to make them laugh. I like what I wear and I no longer worry about what others think about me and my skinny jeans or my stiletto heels or my jangly jewelry. I mourn the loss of family and friends and look forward to seeing them in heaven. I cherish the moments I have and am blissfully astonished that I can still fall in love. I do my best to watch what I eat but I will enjoy that thick slice of double fudge chocolate cake without guilt. My grandchildren are God’s wonderful gift to me and my eyes (as they used to say in the South) are not big enough to see them. Life, in spite of my challenges and losses, has been good to me and I am not going to spend any time complaining about old age and the cruel jokes it plays on mankind.

Shoot! I still believe I can fly!

Walking Tall

2008-07-10T10:51:00.000-07:00

Womanish: African American colloquialism (mostly in the South) for a young girl who is acting too grown; a designation usually given by the elder women in the community who predict that such a young girl will soon become the town’s next wild woman.

I consider myself to be fairly conservative, and though I have often admired the stylish flair other women seem to naturally possess, my wardrobe has always been safe and quiet, a classic look (I think). Or so it was until that historic and fateful day when I walked into Macy’s Department Store and a pair of anything other than quiet shoes fairly shrieked out my name. I did not equivocate when they called. I did not falter. I rushed to buy those shoes before my sensible side kicked in. I had to possess them (or did they possess me?). Those shoes were bold and brash and very self-assertive. This was the beginning of my love affair with what I now call my WOMANISH! Shoes.

Those black pointy-toed four-inch heel kick the door in look out world I’m coming through shoes took hold of my soul. Every time I slipped my feet into those shoes and pulled those leather straps up and across my insteps (just a whisper above bewitching ankles) to unite them with the tasteful silver buckles that hovered over sensual bare-naked heels, my feet arched and a deep throated baritone whispered in my ear, “Oooo Baby, they look good on you!”

In those shoes I was no longer a rather dumpy rolling down the hill towards senior citizen land woman. Instead I was a thirty-something (twenty-something is too young for these shoes) self-assured Diva, whose mere entree into any room turned all the men into blithering idiots (whatever a blither is) while the women who were all Cinderella before I walked through the door turned into pumpkins as I made my magnificent arrival.

Those shoes made the ring around my waist disappear; they elongated my neck, and the curves of my youth that had acquiesced to gravity years ago immediately snapped back into place with alacrity and panache. In a flash I was smart and tres chic, a stylish, witty and brilliant female bon vivant whom everyone wanted to know.

My WOMANISH! Shoes turned my everyday much too loud and common laugh into a head thrown back scintillating sparkle that trilled its way past dazzling white teeth through slightly open and slightly moist, red glazed lips. Those shoes made me want to throw my head from side to side while I danced, hollered and “shook a groove thing.”

I bought my first pair of WOMANISH! Shoes before my husband, who was a pastor, died. The first Sunday I wore them, I walked into church just a little self-conscious. As I slipped quietly into the pew, a good deacon walked over to me. He looked at my feet, raised his eyebrows and smiled rather suggestively (I thought). I had barely recovered from that unexpected reaction when another well-behaved brother walked by, nodded at my feet and said, with a glint in his eye (I thought), “Nice shoes.” That is when the reality of WOMANISH! Shoes hit me:

“These shoes have as much power for me as that old geezer’s red sports car with the young trophy wife in the passenger seat has for him. Not only do these shoes have power, they empower the wearer to the point where confidence overrides any insecurity and the wearer walks just a little bit taller."

Still, since I was a married woman back then, whenever anyone commented on my shoes (mostly men), I would do my best to smile demurely, say “thank-you” and pretend that I was not even aware of the fact that they were WOMANISH! Shoes.

After my husband died, I upped the ante on the shoes. I went WOMANISH! Shoe shopping with a vengeance, which may have been a by-product of my grief. Today, whenever I wear a pair from my collection, I make sure that the people who knew me when my husband was alive (during my conservative heyday) know now that I bought my very first pair before my he died, especially since it is now mostly women who comment and say “my, how you’ve changed.” Yes, one just has to stop those shoe rumors before they start . . .sometimes.

SOME THINGS TO KNOW ABOUT WOMANISH! SHOES

WOMANISH! Shoes never lack for confidence.
WOMANISH! Shoes make a $10 grab bag dress look like “haughty” couture.
WOMANISH! Shoes take life’s challenges one step at a time.
WOMANISH! Shoes can praise God standing up.
WOMANISH! Shoes know the way.
WOMANISH! Shoes mean what they say, but they are never mean.
WOMANISH! Shoes are never self-conscious.
WOMANISH! Shoes may have attitude, but they are never vain.
WOMANISH! Shoes always know what to say and how and when to say it.
WOMANISH! Shoes never give up.
WOMANISH! Shoes can walk the red carpet without thinking they are "the bomb."
WOMANISH! Shoes are always ready to dance.
WOMANISH! Shoes never worry about their age.
WOMANISH! Shoes walk by faith.
WOMANISH! Shoes can be worn by a woman who can delight in the Lord
and
still know her stilettos look good on her.

It is so true. I was never a shoe person back in the day. Until my shoe epiphany, my shoe wardrobe consisted of sensible black shoes, shoes that all looked the same, boring black shoes that were comfortable and blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. I did not want, or covet, the attention WOMANISH! Shoes brought to the wearer of said shoes. I have always been too concerned about what people thought of me. But today, I am most definitely a WOMANISH! Shoe wearer and I am constantly on the hunt for the next pair (think cheetah design with a four or five inch black heel; let me know if you see them out there). Besides, it doesn’t hurt to keep my public wondering. After all, wonderful and marvelous things do happen in me when I slip into those WOMANISH! Shoes.

This I do swear and so affirm, so help me Macy’s, Nordstrom’s, and all those purveyors of those wonderful and glorious WOMANISH! Shoes.