At First Glance

 

At first glance you would think I was defeated.
My life a minefield of devastation an example of what can happen when life happens.

At first glance I’m a barely breathing, heart barely beating example of what defeat looks like.

At first glance you would assume the tears were of sorrow; borrowed from someone worse off than me.

At first glance I was worn, torn wearing scars like scarves, made up to make up for what the world had taken without a fight.

But I invite you to look again. Back up, adjust your view and take another look.

The desperation for my demise made you miss what was really there. LooK again.

This time stay a while; long enough to see me rise from what looked like ashes but instead was God’s favor-sprinkles, glistening like gold dust as His hand pulled me from places that others had dropped me and walked away.

But their departure was God’s way of making room to do his best work. Hmm…it’s amazing how folks think they’re hurting you when they leave. If they only knew that they were helping by getting out of the way before He made the decision to remove them. (See how good God is, he can even bless your enemies, lol)
.
Look again, I encourage you for the truth beckons.
The tears you saw were an overflow of joy, so much joy!
Loss was merely spring cleaning! Diagnosis opportunity to strengthen and stretch those faith muscles, and promises made in earnest yet broken by forgetful hearts, merely a way for God to show us that we never needed anyone but Him.

Look again and what you will see is a woman standing on legs that were once broken.

Look again and you will see a woman thriving, striving and winning against odds built to bend and break.

Look again; the uncertainty gave her strength to run straight into God's arms. Her smile defies the lies, and the goodbyes.

The cries in the midnight are now of gratitude, shouts of platitudes and much attitude because she knows what God was really doing in spite of what it looked like at first glance.

When the door slammed shut, when the check didn’t come or clear. She knew the agenda, , the reason, and the lesson.

She knew triumph would come after the storm because He'd planned the success before He allowed the storm.

Look again and you will see a woman chosen for the challenge.
Look again, you’ll see joy, healing, victory; a woman surrounded by those who really love her, not left alone.

Don’t be fooled by that first glance. Look again and you’ll see a woman living in her second chance, basking in showers that feel like reign.

Look again and you’ll see the truth, a victor over pain, look again, close...closer. Look again and you'll see me.

Photo credit: Steven Wright for Unsplash

YOUR WORDS

 

Are your words like fire spit in my face to burn

Or are they like rain to quench my thirst? 

My need for softness to soothe to heal the dry places-

Will your words pierce my flesh boring holes to my core?

Tell me? Use your inside voice to reach my heart…

Are your words ignited by the flame of desire?

Or are they cold like ice making it easy to turn your back

Leaving me Misery’s company.

The name you spit in my face is not the one

Given at birth yet you swear it belongs to me

Because you say so.

Speak to me from your heart…your inside voice.

Your words reflect you, don’t they?

Each syllable reflects your character-

The gut and realness that is you…not me!

Speak to me in you inside voice…you came 

Under false pretenses to be my beloved.

Yet, your words breathed from a dark place

Scorch and burn and leave a scar where my heart once yearned for you.

Use your Inside voice and write your goodbye’s so-longs 

and make your departure as I stay here to erase 

the essay you have written in my blood. 

My need for softness out weighs your presence

Go and never return…For your inside voice is 

Raspy and off -key, rough and dry…maybe

Next time your words will sing sweet music

Written just for me just to say, “I love you.”

Fearlessly approach me even though my ear may not

Be willing to listen and be willing to speak knowing that

Your return is too late! But speak…with your inside voice

Because you simply had…something…to say!

Photo credit: Kristina Flour for Unsplash

SHE SINGS

She saw the mike. It beckoned her. She climbed the two steps and stood flat-footed, center stage and nodded ever so slightly. Her voice was like magic.

The crowd below waited in knowing expectation. She closed her eyes in a moment of prayer. 

She smiled as she turned to the band. She was ready. Her assignment was clear. Composed, transposed, deported to a place that only the Songstress knew existed. 

She sang of glory; she sang of power!

She sang hallelujah and joy!

She sang of jazz and nights at the

Cotton Club that lived in stories told

And re-told, passed down through time.

Her voice was like honey.

She sang of glory and hallelujah.

Praising the Giver of the Gift.

Her beauty dwarfed only by her voice.

She sang of blues and strange fruit,

Of how her pain had been 

Overcome by joy.

I felt chosen to sit, front row center

to witness the arrival of an angel

From heaven.

She sang jazz and I swore it was gospel,

Told stories of the movement

Of sorrow, and rising

from the dust.

Telling stories wrapped in notes.

Painting pictures with the power

to heal broken hearts.

Her voice was raw, and smooth.

My worries, and tears vanished.

 I sat mesmerized.

The music of a million ages were

held in her bosom.

She sang mending wounds with her voice

feeding souls with each note.

She sang

The lady sang

The blues

And salvation

She sang!

Of overcoming

Pain

Rejection

Brokenness

She sang

And told us

That Jesus cares

He loves

She sang...she sang...

Glory hallelujah...

SHE SANNNNG!

Photo credit: Josh Rocklage for Unsplash

THERE IS BEAUTY IN MY SCARS (LONG STORY SHORT SERIES)

 

“There is beauty in my scars,” she said, a woman who’d done battle in wars waged against her. She didn’t deserve them, and didn’t ask for them, but she'd faced down warriors ten times her size and won.

Now, she’s facing a world who still thinks it can try her and wear her down, and it will pay dearly for its foolishness. Her wounds are healing, some covered with discolored skin. Yet her scars are medals of valor and honor and purple hearts; her silence does not mean weakness. It means she is taking notes and strategizing knowing that the best battles are won in silence.

“There is beauty in my scars,” she repeated, and there is beauty in yours too! I’m not the only one who’s done battle, you have too! I know pride can hold you in denial but you’re missing the beauty and the blessing. It’s okay to cry and wonder why me; no shame in those tears my sister, absolutely none.

Tears, and scars, lies, and questions why, while life goes on and so does the battle. I am a woman, old, new, and dealing with the consequences of both. I hurt and pretend that I don’t, I struggle with balance as I navigate and participate in my own renewal. But I am here.

No more apologies for the space and the air that I occupy, and I accept that life will bring sorrow and joy, and it will leave wounds and scars and it’s okay because, there is beauty in my scars. God made me and he sees me, and each scar is simply a brushstroke and an image of his handprint, that says, I’ve been kissed and loved by the very One who made me.

“Yes, there is beauty in my scars! Lord, I thank YOU for the scars!” Hallelujah and AMEN!

Photo credit: Actionvance for Unsplash

I AM THE ONE

 

I am the one you dreamt of and when you became a man, I am the one you prayed for.

Your pleas to the Lord spoke me into existence and I am here.

Every king desires a queen but what will he do when she comes?

I am the one conceived and birthed from my mother’s womb to birth your future.

Why do you look at me and not know me? How can you see the promise and run?

Every king must be fearless willing to do battle for what is his!

I am the one who has loved you, waited for you and cried when you called me by another’s name. I want to come home to that place in your heart that has never been lived in.

My king would receive me with open arms and a smile.

You are the One that belongs to me ordained and created but will you accept the gift?

Don’t you remember the pleas and the prayers? God heard, and he answered.

Where is your courage and where is your sword?

The demons are waiting to be slaughtered for they too need a king.

I stand before you, arms open with a smile, and you know who I am.

I am the One, a manifestation of your dreams and your prayers.

I beseech you to take my hand, greet me with a smile and welcome me home!

Photo Credit: Rikonavt for Unsplash

Lessons Learned

 

Lessons must be learned.

Teachers, the things, and those unexpected.

But the lessons will be learned.

Abandoned at birth.

Rejected as life grew us up.

We never knew what we didn’t know.

Lessons taught at great sacrifice.

The student unwilling, unknowing.

But the lesson was learned.

Knees bruised; hearts broken.

Life the canvas, with no erasers.

Learning through pain our value.

Lessons will be learned.

Taught, denied, ignored.

But they will be taught.

Life is lessons created.

In the dark to be taught in the light.

To be walked out, lived in.

The moment.

The miracle.

The disaster.

So, don’t stop living.

Life is a lesson, and it will be taught.

Taught whether you pay attention...

...whether you like it or not!

 

Photo Credit: Blake Cheek for Unsplash

HIGH PRAISE!

 

Out of time outs!

Time to come back to church.

Time for high ignorant praise!

I took the liberty of referencing my holy ghost Webster’s and this is what I found on the definition of High Ignorant Praise:

That high ignorant praise: (Adj. Verb and a Noun)

High Ignorant Praise is that thing that has been shut up in your bones for far too long and NOW

You are ready to let it go!

That praise where you just don’t care who’s watching or 

what anybody is thinking or how you’re looking.

High ignorant praise is that ugly cry

when your face is contorted, your mouth is open

Showing all your teeth! 

It’s that run around the church

on bad feet and bad knees praise, 

It’s the act of being willing to risk

the heels on your new shoes or the corns

squeezed into those new shoes!

It’s time for some high ignorant praise!

Let’s get ig’nant, just plum crazy for the LORD!

Just because.

Just because he woke you up (yesterday and today)

Just because you can!

Just because it’s due!

Just because it’s time!

Because he saved your life

from sin, from things...

It’s time to stop wondering if its time.

Praise Him! Ignorantly, fanatically, ugly, loud!

PRAISE HIM!

Photo Credit: Akra Hojo for Unsplash

CHELSEA'S MORNING (LONG STORY SHORT SERIES)

 

Chelsea began each day sitting quietly on her second-floor patio. The early morning sun greeted her like an old friend and the small sparrows nodded hello as they retreated from their spots on the wooden banister.  

Her seat gave her a bird’s eye view as the world walked by totally unaware of her presence; men, and women hurrying past rushing to jobs and tasks that gave their otherwise meaningless lives purpose. It always seemed odd that very few looked up to notice her. 

In her mind, Chelsea created lives for the strangers adding new chapters each morning. Like Alejandro and Odell, not their real names of course, who stepped off the bus and headed down the sidewalk toward the wharf every day. Alejandro first then Odell, strangers who’d followed this routine for years without ever acknowledging each other. Chelsea imagined the two as lovers pretending to be strangers; in the evenings, the two would meet in some secret place and make love well into the night falling asleep in each other’s arms until the next day demanded they begin their ruse again.

Alejandro was a mariner; his dark leathery skin told her as much; the lunch box and thermos was a necessity for the long day at sea. He’d fished on the endless seas for years supporting himself with hard labor on a boat he did not own. Odell followed the man until he reached the corner. As he glanced both ways before crossing the street, she pulled a key ring from her purse and let herself inside the small seaside bakery. Chelsea assumed that the woman had named the place, Chloe’s after her only child, a sweet but spoiled little tyke with long coarse pigtails. The older woman had dreams of the girl running the shop one day, but the girl had other plans choosing instead to become a doctor on the other side of the country.

The room smelled of yesterday’s pastries, coffee and sandwiches and the woman made her way through the dimly lit room to the light switch near the kitchen entrance; the hum of the florescent lights buzzed seconds before the room lit up. Like every day before, she grabbed the apron, slipping it over her head as she stepped past the curtain into the kitchen.

Chelsea swallowed the last few drops of her coffee as the street below grew quiet. It was time to release Alejandro and Odell from her imagination and begin her day. With one last glance at the street below she exhaled and went inside. 

The morning morphed past the afternoon into early evening; Chelsea stepped onto her patio again, this time with a glass of wine in one hand and a small plate of meat, cheese, and crackers in the other. Just like earlier she watched the people below rushing to beat the sun before it disappeared below the horizon and relinquished its duties to the moon. 

Chelsea closed her eyes for a moment as the cool air brushed across her skin. Then she opened her eyes just in time to see Alejandro cross the street at the corner. She noticed him glance slightly toward the bakery as he passed. Moments later, Odell stepped out of the bakery, locked the door, and headed toward the bus stop just a few steps behind the handsome fisherman.

The two were good at ignoring and pretending not to know each other Chelsea chuckled to herself as her imagination took over.  The sound of the bus swishing to a stop caused Chelsea to stand and lean slightly over the rail to get a better view as the passengers boarded. Alejandro and Odell were the last to board. 

Alejandro glanced back at the petite woman, even from where she stood, Chelsea could see the twinkle of approval in his eyes. Stepping aside and offering his strong hand, he helped her on. Nodding her thanks, the woman smiled and disappeared down the aisle. Chelsea smiled knowingly wondering if there was more to her wild imaginings than she thought.

The bus doors closed as Alejandro also disappeared down the narrow aisle. Chelsea wondered if the man would have the nerve to sit next to the woman or would their game continue. Tomorrow, she’d have to wait until tomorrow to learn more or to draw her own conclusions. Whatever the case, life would go on and perhaps even love.

To be continued...

THE END

Photo credit: Anna Keibalo for Unsplash

GRIEF BITES

 

Grief bites I thought you knew.

Thought you knew that leaving was not you.

Leaving without saying goodbye,

without explaining why

was unacceptable.

Grief steals taking joy leaving pain.

Leaving pain, tears like rain.

Tears raining, soaking my spirit,

a spirit that once lived for you

Is now dead,

Grief bites like rain.

Wet and then dries.

Disappearing when the sun rises

as if it was never there.

Grief bites like wine.

Leaving behind a bitter taste

and a stain like memories.

Like taunting.

Grief hurts, it leaves us bare I thought you knew.

Thought you’d never go without saying goodbye.

Grief is that last sip of Rosé or

Chardonnay. 

I drained the glass for you; my last testament

that I loved you when you were here and

I Love you more now that you’re gone.

Cheers to the memory of you!

Photo credit: Julia Kadel

THAT GIRL

 

That girl!

Who rose from the ashes because she was the fire!

God blew on the embers of her possibilities.

and combustion happened birthing life to her dreams,

and smiles that fed those places in

her eyes that had grown dark.

That girl!

Who said no... no to surrender!

No to fear. Grasping instead life and love.

Loving the woman God created.

Seeing her flaws as fabulous and

seeing her tears as rain!

I’m that girl!! That girl is me!

Photo credit: Knight Duong for Unsplash

I'M NOT PERFECT - WHISPERS FROM A BROWN GIRL

 

SO THANKFUL THAT I DON’T HAVE TO BE PERFECT 

FOR GOD TO LOVE ME.

WHISPERS FROM A BROWN GIRL

Photo credit: Wadi Lissa for Unsplash

I'M FIRE!

 

It’s not about bad hair but bad air.  I breathe fire you breathe rain.

Dousing water on my dreams sending my hopes into steam! 

What was white hot like hope now lies in a puddle at my feet. 

You stand at the mirror reflecting on your deeds. 

You’ve done good, got away with murder, so you think. 

But little did you know my thoughts were of you! 

I included you in my plans. 

Happy not nappy, you pressed your hair, 

I dared to dream. 

I dreamed a world where I mattered, we all mattered,

 where bad deeds weren’t justified at the mirror. 

I breathe fire let’s breathe fire together. 

Let’s flow like lava igniting everything we touch,

creating islands resting in the new thing we created.

It's not the hair it’s the dare! Dare to dream, dare to be different! 

Dare to be fire-breathing. Breathing life, fearlessly fabulous,

Intentional in our intent.

Fire-breathing, no rain, no tears no dousing flames of hope,

Straining to see through steam distorting the scene.

Now standing before the mirror boldly!

Declaring my wrongs, my rights to hope and breathe,

Because I am fire, white hot liquid fire...

...watch me flow!

Photo credit: Boris Rager for Pixabay

UNBOTHERED

 

Dear Lord,

Please give me the strength to be unbothered by the people who found it so easy to let me go, and so easy to walk away. 

Open my eyes to see the space that was freed up in the vacancy they created.

Help me to understand that the real estate was too

valuable to place in the hands of those who did not deserve to hold the deed! 

So now I can breathe without judgement and appreciate the view of what freedom and true value looks like! 

And my what a view!

Whispers From A Brown Girl 

Photo credit: Tabitha Turner for Unsplash

WHISPERS FROM A BROWN GIRL

 

Lord today I will not focus on the hurt nor give space and power to those responsible for that hurt. 

Today, Lord I will be thankful for the deliverance and healing from that hurt. 

The only name that will be allowed residence in my spirit today will be Yours! 

Thank You, Lord!

Amen. 

Photo credit: Natali Hordilik for Unsplash

Where Do Creatives Go?

Photo credit: Daniel Lee Mingook/Unsplash

Where do Creatives go?

Worship and belonging seems foreign.

Foreign because my language is

Not your language and so...

IF I draw while you speak

Because your words have nudged me.

We are on the same wave but 

The frequency is weak.

Music and praise and waving of hands

Look like clouds and dance in the Creative’s mind.

I see the glances and snickers wondering if I’m sane.

You usher me out, but I want to stand.

Where do the Creatives go?

Longing to belong but finding no place

Perceived as a threat, a nuisance.

My tears and my silenced tongue say,

Not so...

Where do the Creatives go?

To worship, to praise, sing and

Paint, to dance...

Where? I don’t know.