love

Breathing Love

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Tonight, as with most nights lately, Elizabeth and I disagreed on the fact that she needed sleep. She didn’t nap today but fifteen minutes in the car so I knew she was tired, as well as all the normal signs being there (flopping on the floor with her blankie, rubbing her eyes and nose, going to the gate to be let into her room). However, instead of relaxing and letting me rock her to sleep, she began to fight me to get up and out of my lap and back to the living room. This was my second attempt at rocking her as putting her down in her crib to put herself to sleep resulted in her a) playing a game of peek-a-boo over the railing where she giggled when I told her to lie down or b) trying to climb out of her crib if I left the room and ignored her antics. So as I held her and she began to fight again and I felt the frustration start to kick in, I felt something in me just urging, “Tell her you love her.”

So I did. I kissed her forehead and told my little girl that I loved her.

And it urged, “Tell her again.”

So I did.

“And again. Don’t stop.”

As so I just began repeating “I love you” to Elizabeth, whispering it on every breath. Breathe in. Breathe out: “I love you.” Breathe in. Breathe out: “I love you”.

At first, it was an odd experience to repeat the same phrase over and over again, but then, as I did, it literally became a breathing pattern. And, also, I saw her relax and calm. Her fighting stopped, her breathing evened out, and those little brown eyes fluttered closed bit by bit. Soon, her paci half-lolled out of her mouth in that way that tells me that she’s long gone asleep. And yet I rocked and held her and whispered, “I love you.” It was hard to stop, I found.

Finally, I kissed her one last time, rose from the rocking chair, and laid her down in her crib, tucking her in with a stroke to her hair and a last-breathed, “I love you.” And that was that.

Now, I do not see myself as having the spiritual gift of prophesying or of being one who hears God clearly and pointed all that often in my every-day life, but I believe that it was God’s voice whispering to me tonight and telling me simply to remind my daughter, over and over, that I love her. Elizabeth is 20 months old, almost two, and she is showing it all the time. She’s adventurous and fearless but also willful and melodramatic and, dare I say it, a little bit spoiled. As a stay-at-home currently, I am her primary caregiver and that includes discipline. So I’m sure, somewhere in her toddler brain, it might seem like Mum-mum doesn’t want her to do anything fun or exciting, or maybe even that I don’t love her. But I do, more than I can say and, often, all I have are those three words: I love you. So, tonight, I believe that that urging in my heart and soul was God’s reminder for me to remind her that I do indeed love her. With every moment, with every breath, with every fiber of my being.

I love you, Elizabeth.

A Heart Speaking – The Last

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I…am not entirely sure what to say about this. I could sit here and say that I don’t do sappy but we all know that to be a load of hogwash. I happened upon this video through my WordPress reader, another blogger had posted it and I recognized the young actor in the video (Harry Shum, Jr. – who is…amazing, by the way. Why didn’t “Glee” let him shine like this?). So I sat and watched it. It’s a little longer, just over eight minutes, but…it really struck me. I cannot say I am in love with it wholly and entirely, but there are parts of it that resonate with me. So…give it a watch, if you will, and see what you think. Feel free to comment and share your thoughts. 🙂

A Note in Retrouvaille

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The coffee shop had changed so much over the years. Gone was the little electric stove in the corner, flanked by the worn, squeaky armchairs. The place had been repainted, the booths and tables redone. The names of the drinks had changed, the art on the walls ever rotating. Yes, it had changed a great deal.

But as she sat at an empty table near the window, the air around suffused with the scent of coffee and cream and the tap-taps of keyboards, words of thought floating over her head, she smiled, The vanilla chai cradled in her hands, she remembered why she loved this place, even now.

She could feel him in the chair across from her, feel his hand – warmed by his spiced chai – in hers, his thumb running over the backs of her fingers thoughtfully as they talked, sipped, and smiled. They had spent hours here together, learning each others’ worlds, minds, and hearts. She could see him smirk at her, how he loved to tease. She could feel his kiss as he lifted her hand to his lips. These things she would never forget. These things would make this little coffee shop infinitely precious and beautiful a spot, no matter how much it changed.

“I love you,” she whispered into her vanilla chai as she lifted the smooth sweetness to her lips, her words added to those already floating in air spiced with coffee, chocolate, and cream.

Yeah. Let’s Talk About That, Shall We?

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I have been debating posting this for a day or two now, finding myself pretty sure that, if I did post it, that there would be backlash from probably more than one corner and I might even ostracize myself. But a friend posted something lit that fire in my gut again and I found my decision had been made. So, here we go.

Warning: this is rant so…yeah. It might contain some stronger language than I usual use and might make you angry. It might embarrass you. You are under no obligation to read it. You’ve been warned.

On Saturday Night Live this past weekend, they put on their “28 Reasons” sketch in honor (and I use that term VERY loosely) of Black History Month. In the sketch, the teacher of a class announces that it is Black History Month and then calls on the only three black students in the entire class to make their presentation. I know it was a joke and meant to be funny, but all it did was make me angry and insulted. I am deeply insulted at the even comedic use of slavery as an excuse for deference, advancement, etc. I do not believe in making people feel guilty for something that their ancestors may have done but has nothing to do with them today in 2014. I am the daughter of two Caribbean parents, so the likelihood of my ancestors being slaves is probably pretty strong. But I refuse to carry the grudge of anger, injustice, and chains that have never been mine, not even jokingly. It’s wrong and just as insensitive and wrong as the jerk over there making jokes about people, ANY people.

Years ago, one of my family members pointed out, while I was in college, that most of my friends were white. My reply to her question of, “Do you see anything wrong with this picture?” as she held up a photo of my friends and I was, “Nope, not a thing.” Let’s be totally honest here! Not a damn thing was wrong with that picture!

You might not hear this very often but it’s the truth: I am a black woman of privilege. I see myself as privileged in that I had my bachelor’s and master’s degrees under my belt by the age of 23, funded by scholarships that I applied for and earned based on my academics, not my skin color. I am privileged in that I had the opportunity to spend 6 wonderful years with my husband, living, working, and loving together as we learned how to be together. I am privileged in that we own our own home and that we are comfortable enough so that I have been able to stay home with my thirteen-month-old daughter since she was born. I am privileged in that I can go to the store and buy what I need when I need it, without worrying how I am going to pay for it. I am privileged in that I have the support of close family and friends. I am privileged in that I get to sit here and blog and share my experiences, heart, and mind, with whatever corners of the world choose to read it.

I hate generalizations. I hate accusations. I hate a sense of entitlement, that you should be treated differently or kowtowed to because “they should be damned sorry for what their family did” or whatever. Call me disloyal, call me an oreo or whatever you want, I don’t care. IT IS NOT RIGHT! I am not going to sit here and say that prejudice and racism do not exist; I would be a foolish, blind woman to believe or say so. Racism/prejudice/injustice exists, sure as the sun rises in the morning and sets in the evening. People earn less in jobs/careers, have lower positions, and are disrespected outright without cause, because of the color of their skin (white people included), but can also be so because of their religions, their sexual orientations, and their educations or lack thereof regardless of their talent or skill. I acknowledge it, I work against it as best I can in my community of life, but I refuse to live my live defined by it. How can I show love if I am always angry? How can I encourage others if I am always screaming? My loved ones are my loved ones, not colors or orientations or religions.  I was raised to be a person, not a color. And I will raise my daughter to be a person, not a color. I will raise her to love her fellow man, regardless of what is on the outside. I want her to be a girl and then a woman who looks at the hearts of those she meets and shows them hers. I want her to be strong in herself and her beliefs, but I do not want to raise her in anger or fear or hate. She was conceived in love, born into love, and I want her to live in love.

To circle this around to my original rant. Even when issues of hatred, resentment, and, yes, racism are played out as jokes, the idea that they are giving levity to the situation, it’s not funny. At least it’s not to me. I cannot tell you how often I have had to correct 8th grade students because they said things that they heard on shows like SNL and Tosh 2.0, thinking that they were funny but just came off as offensive and insulting. It’s a bad message to send, in my opinion. 

*sighs and climbs down from my soapbox* I think I was all over the place, but I think I am done.

The Quiet Christian

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I am a Christian. I believe that Jesus is the Son of God. I believe that he came to earth, lived a life as a human being, spoke unapologetically of God, loved others, gave strength and help and forgiveness where it was most needed, and then gave his life, submitting to a gruesome death as a man whose innocence even the highest authority of the day did not and could not dispute.  I also believe that Jesus did not stay dead but rose up three days after his burial. I believe that it is my responsibility as a Christian to love others, to do good to them, and be as much of a help and a blessing as I can. I do not believe that it is my job to judge others, to tear them down, or destroy their hearts. That flies in the face everything that Christ stands for, in my mind and my heart.

What I realized this weekend is that I am a quiet Christian. As I was in worship service with others, I found myself focusing on the woman who was playing the piano and leading the singing. She was amazingly talented – beautiful voice, wonderful playing, and a passionate love for what she was doing. There was something in her personality that shone through that made me shrink back. In that instant, coupled with other thoughts I have had this weekend, I realized that I am a “quiet” Christian. I do not mean that I am embarrassed by or ashamed of my beliefs. What I mean is that I will rarely be found up front. When I was younger, in college, I sang on the worship team at church, as well as led the drama team. But that is not my forte anymore, at least I do not feel so. The older I get, the less I like to be in the “spotlight” of ministry. I like the behind-the-scenes, the quiet aspects and form of ministry. I’d rather be tidying the nursery, writing the script for the Christmas pageant, or sending cards and notes than being up front leading the congregation. That is where my grace lies

I am an introvert. I am a quiet person. I thrive in the things I can do that no one else but maybe one other person sees. In college, my favorite ministry was Secret Encouragers. We would encourage our student leaders in Student Christian Fellowship – our Servant Family – in secret – with cards, notes, email, and gifts. And we would help each other do so. I loved sneaking around leaving gifts and sending notes that no one would ever know were from me. I ran around campus in the early hours of the morning – fog still rolling off the flagstones – leaving cookies that I had just baked at the doors of professors, ministers, and counselors who deserved my thanks and some encouragement as finals week was about to commence. And I carried a warm heart with me all the day long afterward.

Maybe telling you this is counter-intuitive for a “quiet” person, but this blog is about honestly telling about my life. I enjoy the quiet things of ministry, which, sometimes, can take as much courage and vulnerability as getting up front and leading publicly. And I remember that my faith is one based on love and that any time I do one of these “little” things, even if God is never mentioned, it is a ministry of love. I am here to do good to and for others, to give hearts a boost, and souls some encouragement and soothing if I can. I never know if or when something I may write or text or say may connect with someone and grasp them out of a downward spiral. I cannot tell you how many times a note or card out of the blue has lifted my heart and stopped a downward path cold, nor can I ever say thank you enough for that little bit of love that was sent my way.

So while I may step out into the light every now and again, I know where my work of faith, my grace, my gift lies. It’s in the little things, the quiet things, the things that I may never know just how much they mean but that I want to do anyway just because I believe in it.

NaBloPoMo Day 13: When I Was Young and Foolish

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For Betsy:

When I was young and foolish,

I gave my heart away.

I gave it with no thought

Of what would come or may.

Whe’er my heart led,

That was where I’d go.

One string here, one string there,

Loving that secret glow.

Until all those strings

A large knot became.

My touch became hurt,

My presence a stab of pain.

When I was young and foolish,

I gave my heart away

With no thought to who would get it

Or what they got from me.

Now there are scars

Here and there,

And I must be more careful

With how I choose to share.

For you cannot give your heart away

Without taking someone else’s.

And that is a treasure that

Must needs be cherished.

So be careful

With the heart you’re given,

Because sins against love

Are often the hardest shriven.

“A Love Affair with Disney”

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I have grown up on Disney movies, tv shows, concerts, trips, toys, etc. Even now, as a woman of twenty-nine, and especially as I am pregnant with my first child, I am in love with Disney. Whenever we pass the Disney Store in one of the bigger malls in Indianapolis, I have to pull my husband inside to look around. Of course, Disney now owns practically everything – from Power Rangers, to X-men, Captain America, etc., but I still find extreme pleasure in moving around the store, smiling and admiring the loveliness of the costumes, dolls, toys, and clothing that are laid out. So much more intricate and elaborate now than when I was a little girl and longed for such pretty things. But now I find that it is far more nostalgia for me and a sweet nostalgia at that. This past Christmastime, we went to the Disney Store and, when I spied a cute little Stitch in his Christmas pjs and bed slippers. I picked him up and he was so soft and adorable that I fairly started to cry as I held and cuddled him. I didn’t purchase it, however, as the hubby had already bought me a lovely Cheshire Cat and Stitch for our 5th wedding anniversary.

While Disney has sanitized many of the old fairytales, placing in happy endings where traditionally there were none, only fearful, heartbreaking, and sometimes bloody lessons to be learned, I still find a sweetness and joy in watching them. I enjoy remembering when I was a little girl and longed to a heroine. Not necessarily a princess, I think, but a heroine nonetheless. I remember when “Beauty and the Beast” first came out and I watched Belle with her books. I marveled that there should be a heroine so much like me, with a love of books comparable to mine, as I knew no one in school or in my community with such a love and obsession. Therefore, I found a comrade in a fiction when there was no such one in life. Also, like Ariel, I felt that my father didn’t understand me and I longed for experiences, for places to explore and discover.  However, along with that, came a rather romantic spirit but I soon puzzled out for myself that the sort of princes in the Disney fairytales were not the sort of prince I wanted. I didn’t want someone to save me but someone to work alongside me, someone who would get to know me, understand me. Honestly, in all the Disney stories, I do think that “Beauty and the Beast” is the relationship closest to what I wanted. Belle and the Beast were together for a long time, perhaps close to a year, getting to know each other, helping each other, learning each other. None of these whirlwind loves like Ariel and Eric (three days, really?) but a true friendship start to their love. A friendship that fostered understanding and loyalty. That is what I wanted. And that is what I received with Ben.

So, in a way, I suppose, Disney has helped me decide what I did and did not want out of love and relationship. So, thank you, Disney. Thank you for that.

“On Lullabies”

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I love lullabies! Absolutely adore them. This stems from my mother singing to me every night when I was a little girl; it was the only way I would go to sleep: if my mother laid in the bed with me and sang “Jesus Loves Me” and patted me gently until I feel asleep under the gentle hum of her voice and touch of her hand. I knew I was safe, I knew I was loved. And, over the years, I have collected lullabies to sing to myself and, now, to my child when it is born. My favorites include:

“Jesus Loves Me” (children’s Bible hymn)

“Baby Mine” (Dumbo, sung by Allison Kraus)

“Stay Awake” (Mary Poppins)

“Distant Melody” (Peter Pan play)

“In My Own Little Corner” (Rogers and Hammerstein’s Cinderella)

Dumbo and his mother as she rocks him to sleep.

And the hubby has also added a few of his own favorites lately, namely: “Rainbow Connection” (The Muppets) and “You’ll Be In My Heart” (Tarzan, bluegrass version).

To me, lullabies are tangible love. To sing them, to give of your voice to a little one or just someone who needs it at the moment, is an act of deep love, I believe. Lullabies are not necessarily something that you do out of habit. I think that it is a learned behavior. Little children learn it from parents, grandparents, nannies, older brothers and sisters, daycare teachers and pass it on to sleepy dollies and drowsy cats and dogs. I have already begun singing to our child. So far, “Baby Mine” is my favorite and I’m pretty sure that my mother will use “Jesus Loves Me” with her grand-punkin just as she did with me. Even to this day, when my mom sings “Jesus Loves Me”, it makes me tear up. The hubby will sing “Rainbow Connection” because it has a special place in his heart.

Singing soothes me, calms me, and I only hope that it will do the same for my little one.