Ready?

The last words from my lips

last night were a cry out to God, and Steve who was listening too…

"I just want to be able to speak more…I feel like I am losing my gift…”

early morning phone call with cell phone on the breakfast bar

causes sleepy hearted stumble

voicemail reveals the unbelievable

“are you able to speak today?”

12 hours after prayer, answer comes.

My God listens

My Father is attentive to me

I am heard

Hurried panic to find words

And activities

50 children?

Aged 6-13?!

That usual thought of “this only happens to me”

Runs through my head

But exciting thought jogs alongside

“What a beautiful chance to speak into young lives.”

Last nights meditation meets this morning’s devotion

Conversation just between Father God and me

Brought to larger sphere

From the overflow of my heart

Shall my mouth speak

Clock ticks

Panic sets

Arrive to crazy kids running loose

Heart pains in chest. Can I do this?

Crazy English games of true or false

1.     England can fit into Texas 5 times

2.     I have met The Queen

3.     The 2012 Olympics are in London, England

4.     England’s most popular sport is soccer

5.     In cricket there are 11 players on a team

(answers below)

Then into passionate reading of Psalm 84:

“How lovely is your dwelling place…

…my heart and flesh cry out for the living God…

…Blessed are those who dwell in your house, they are ever praising you…

…better is one day in your courts than a thousand elsewhere…

…no good thing does he withhold from those whose walk is blameless.”

Returning to the sweet spot:

“Blessed are those whose strength is in you,

Who have set their heart on pilgrimage.”

What does a blessed face look like?

Where do you get your strength from?

What is a pilgrimage?

Both

a journey that 6 year old boy travels with heavy backpack on shoulders, as he face plants sprinting across gymnasium floor

and

a dance, celebration, the full life with Father

Time spent sketching and pondering: Do you want to set your heart on a journey and dance with God?

Paper and pen reveal hearts overflow

Sweet prayer time with babes

Hearts deep with praise

Then silly questions like

“are you married?”
“Do you have any brothers?”
“Do you like playing American football”

“What position did you play in soccer?”

but questions none the less, desiring relationship, understanding

to be connected with another person

connected to another place

isn’t that the desire of us all

to be connected?

And it all it takes is a heart

Willing and open

To say

I am ready

I will speak

As the letter of Peter says:

“always being prepared to make a defense to anyone who asks you for a reason for the hope that is in you”

And I am ever hopeful.

 ----

[True/False: 1.True, 2.False, 3.True, 4.True, 5.True]

"It"

So the animals like the donkeys came in two-by-two to Noah’s ark, but now there are like 700 donkeys…how comes there are so many?

The lady plants the seed in the garden and then the man comes and waters it.

The baby? Oh the stork carried it from a special place in the sky and brought it here.

the unspoken word

the taboo topic

the thing everyone is doing but no one is talking about

“it”

pictures circulate via middle school students phones

the girl walks the hall as every knowing eye turns

raucous boys celebrate in sweaty locker room

hidden magazines in bottom of closet

“it”

paralysing parents

through fear and shame

unable to speak

passing a book to an inquisitive child

and sending them on their way

generation after generation

remains tight-lipped

“it”

we were all made with “it”

we will all do “it”

but yet we don’t want to talk about “it”

we cry over youth impregnated and diseased

we weep over outfits of binge-drinking teens

shock fills us at dance moves of gyrating kids

but yet we are silent

we still call it “it”

and just “it” will disappear until the day

they say “I do”

“it”

that which is hidden

can never be healed

the thing in the dark

must be brought to the sun

the field of freedom

enjoying the light

where we sit and discuss

we are open

it’s right

yesterday’s bible session gone awry

spent sharing with girls

about all the unsaid

answering questions

pre-empting their struggles

breaking the silence

let’s talk about sex

educate our kids

let’s talk about sex

and stop handing out books

let’s talk about sex

in everyday conversation

let’s talk about sex

be honest about our experiences

let’s talk about sex

and not be ashamed

let’s talk about sex

let’s talk about sex.

Before it’s too late.

Babes

Lights lower to dim as

Slideshow flicks on screen

Reveals first photo of babe in arms.

Tears fall like a river

The child’s mother passes me kleenex.

Yes, this is graduation

The only situation that can bring me to tears.

My heart thinks

“this isn’t even my kid”

but truth is

I have been a part

Of many a life that I’m not biologically related to.

8^th graders filled the house

crazy hair, braces on teeth

sugar highs raise the roof

as we cart outside for ‘balloon stomp’

and ANTM walks on the garden path.

Crazy presentations with ‘Drain-0’ on stage

and dances with tissues

all a pre-cursor

for the depths of discussion

and questions openly asked

missional times

as I watched you grow.

I don’t remember half of what I taught you

(erase that which was in appropriate)

But I remember the times

I wiped your tears

And listened as you poured your heart

And pride when you stepped onto the stage and spoke

Or played or acted

Or spiked that ball

I remember how rough around the edges you were

At the start

And I wondered

What would you become?

And the hours of worry

And prayer and wondering

Will you be ok?

And now

You are more

So much more than ok

And I’m glad that I could be here

to see you

complete

this stage. 

For ahead of you stretches

A path of multi weaving

Leading and taking you

Who but Father knows

I release you babes

Like arrows through the sphere

And you will be famous

A father or spouse

A leader, a teacher

Activist, entrepreneur

Doing things that will be

Unknown to me. 

But we had this time

And I poured into you now

And I can never forget

The difference that made.

The difference we all make

When we put others first.

Building and growing

The next generation of artillery.

Our capacity stretches far beyond who we are

And into those who drink

From our stream outpouring.

So be a fountain that quenches

A stream of life

For by your banks

Growth will be seen. 

Thank you babes,

For letting me be,

A small part of your life,

A piece of your legacy. 

Deep Brown

My soul awoke this morning longing for jokes.

90 minutes with this girl satisfied that need:

For the record, this is my best black GIRL friend.

Apparently it can be offensive to say you only have one good friend who is black when you are sat next to this guy:

Our Skype conversations involve loud high-pitched screaming

Dissecting the world through our brown eyes

Crazing jokes about way back when

Our friendship spanning

Back to doo-doo plaits and

White patent shoes

For pew seats on sabbaths

With some friends we bond over English literature and fashion

With others our faith unites as we collectively seek to go deeper

With Angelene and Luke

our bond goes

Deeper than

Most.

For it is more than

Skin deep.

But yet it is

Defined by skin.

Mummy worked so hard, fought so much

For best area, best schools

Effort that made me

A small group of coloured faces

In a very pale crowd

Not completely fitting in

With middle-class families

and lives unlike my own

school canteen didn’t even cook

rice & peas & chicken

Grandma loved to take me to church

Worship and know His word

Effort that gave me

Sunday school peers with faces

and hair like mine

Yet I didn’t know the same music and people

my words and slang too “proper” for them

pushing against an enclosed circle

my name was not on the list

“coconut”

black on the outside

white on the inside.

The ultimate disgrace.

Fast forward to finding love in the arms of

A pale grammar school boy

Hands holding walking beautifully in step

And told

“oh.

You’re married.

We don’t have many people like that here.”

And shame of husband

mistaken for the boyfriend of

a 17-year-old white girl

because to piece our white and milk chocolate together

in social situations

seems unbelievable.

Interracial makes no sense.

And the untold pain of constantly living,

And breathing and being,

In a place where so few faces look like yours,

And no one seems to get

Why that is such a big deal

Why you feel like you might lose

A part of who you are.

My heart desires a

United Colours of Benetton kinda place

Where we see

the beauty in all parts of the world.

No matter the shade of the sky or of your eyes.

And delight in the food

from fields far flung.

The beauty they’ll be in our mixed-race babies

light cocoa skin

taking a bit from mummy

a bit from dad.

But my heart already breaks

for the moment narrow-mindedness says

“Why is your dad white, but you are black?”

Oh to be in an open space,

open place,

where differences are embraced,

as a chance to learn and

see new things.

See, I love all things in my world of brown

Grandma’s Jamaica dumplings,

my mum’s telephone voice,

the fact my hair costs a small mortgage.

The battle our race fights,

for under-achieving boys,

fathers long gone.

Equality in some ways,

still far behind.

When you say my name and see my face,

This is my story,

These are my people.

Heritage I can’t

and don’t want

To ignore

The beauty I embrace.

Skin-defined

But not just skin deep.

Fairytales

The whole world stood still.

2 billion tuned in to watch.

I awoke at 4am, an event paramount to a lunar eclipse.

Tweets flew around as champagne breakfasts began on a country’s day off.

What would she wear?

How proud would his mother be.

“the scars of your love remind me of us, they keep me thinking that we almost had it all”

the heartbroken soul pens her album

dirty with the fingerprints of the thief of her heart

yet this break up record still spends consecutive weeks at #1 of charts

on both sides of the Atlantic

rough winds creating a tide the lovesick surf upon

“Sometimes it hurts instead, sometimes it lasts in love”

It’s prickly fingers juxtaposing soft skin

Provide the best metaphor

Bright vibrant colour expressing what words cannot

Yet uncultivated, uncultured

It cuts the soul

Millions of thousands of dozens delivered

Gushing smiles receive them willingly while the singletons look away, dreaming of when their turn will be

That tangled mess of a thing called love

That we don’t want, yet we do

We search out, but act coy

Enthrals each one of us

5 years ago I walked away

afraid of it

yet wanting it

hearing words from Father

loud enough for even my deaf fearful ears to hear

“if you don’t trust him, you’ll never trust anyone”

but when cardiac muscle, strewn like confetti, damp with your tears, lines the cotton of your pillow

how can you believe?

Because you don’t roam a forest, with a basket of muffins, red cape hooded over blond locks of curls

And you don’t live in the frame of a Toshiba set, with all resolved at the end of a 30 minute slot

But you listen to ‘21’

and you watch the Royals

looking longingly at the roses

And you wouldn’t do it at all

if your heart didn’t still hope

for fairytales. 

It's not naive to think they still come true.

Box

Everyday an empire of choices build a tower and determine us

Made up of boxes for us to tick,

pick up,

construct our person.

Neatly stacked,

Black and white,

Plain and simple.

I want to judge you in one breath

Though it has taken years to sculpt your form

I want to define you with my periphery glance

Pick your side, pick your friends, pick your white picket fence or ghetto apartment

All in one decision

Pro-life or pro-choice?

“Do you know that God hates murder?”

“Do you know how hard it is to live with being raped, let alone have a child from it?”

Why do these women think the way they do?

What happened in their lives that profoundly affected them?

What, if any, faith do they have that shapes their lives?

What was their childhood like?

Do we really know the full story?

I remember, my 15 year old body struggling with adolescence, seeking solace in the words of my mother but being confronted by a harsh truth:

“The doctor said I should have had an abortion with you”

Potato chips hang from my mouth as my mother, my against-the-odds carrier, continues the washing up.

My life

Was nearly

Not my own?

I was one of them.

An embryo of political and social debate.

One of the little foetus’ on the ultrasound screen,

nearly deleted,

because they thought I didn’t matter,

it would be too hard.

My scared mother staring down the barrel of single parenthood

Listened to words that said

Because my days were not yet one,

I was ready for refuse

But from conception I was me.

Valuable.

Significant.

With purpose.

What would the world be like without me??

I then wonder what it would be like to go through the drama of being raped, the feeling of shame, dirt and pain and then turn to my husband and say:

“I am pregnant with my rapist’s child”

A child birthed out of violation, abuse attack.

Blah blah redemption blah blah hope blah…just blurry words, unsteady rocks that I can’t cling onto in the pain.

I remember a friend at university, questioning her future family, scared that she would never conceive as a result of an abortion.

Painful tears as blame filled her head, devastated that a decision done in a moment left residue for years to come.

I envision the face of a lady I met, having had several children taken into car, her reckless lifestyle not an option for the unborn child within her stomach, preparing in her heart to have them placed for adoption. Birthed from her belly, but not resting in her nest.

To pick pro-life or pro-choice

Is to suggest a false dichotomy

Is the life of the struggling mother not important?

Is it not a choice to say “yes” to the disruption to a child?

Is there much life when you know you are born out of illegitimacy and spend years in foster care?

Is it not a choice to choose to parent alone?

I believe in the sanctity of life

But that goes way beyond abortion.

It causes me to examine

War

Alcohol

Drug use

Broken families

Euthanasia

It is more than an ideology confined to one subject.

I believe in the right to choose

But that causes me to dissect

Politics

Sexuality

Abstinence

Materialism

Religion

We don’t live in the block city system where linear thinking runs parallel to Choice St. and 3^rd.

We are bombarded daily with the messiness of people

The after-shocks of the decisions we make

The dirt of compromise

The stench of people in process left behind

The weight of a weave wasn’t too heavy for even Nicki Minaj to see and say that

“Life is a prize”

This Saturday I will walk two miles for the Texas Coalition for Life

My chest inhaling deeply

My feet exhausted

My t-shirt emblazoned with

‘Choose Life’

Celebrating the joy of life

Knowing that preserving life, upholding it

Is an ideal

That not all can celebrate

But knowing there is a better way

To the pain and brokenness I see everyday. 

Wilderness

The cow is dragged across the barren field.

It tugs against the leash,

Constricted feelings

Frustrations of being stuck

Being forced

Overwhelming.

Heels dig into the ground

Mud flies up in silent protest

Resistance reigns:

“I will not go.”

The journey takes twice the time

but eventually the place is reached.

Glistening water for a parched soul

but the ugly horns of defiance are still intent on wreaking havoc.

The cow stands still.

Brought to the sanctuary of water

But still not drinking,

The sun sets on the lonely silhouette

Of the stubborn cow.

I am a cow.

Definitely metaphorically.

[Sometimes literally.]

The water, the refuge, the discipline of life is what I so harshly fight against.

I am a free, spontaneous spirit delighting in the joys of life.

I will

Not

Be

Tamed.

But in my resilience,

I miss out on what is good for me.

Thirsty in an Evian factory.

Dying barren inside.

A death of the good within me.

I love to write.

Since my toddler years, my childhood was littered with countless hours  spent creating stories with stylishly dressed protagnists.

I dreamt of being a librarian,

Drowning in books,

Delighting in the adventure of whimsy and folklore,

Of lessons learned and regrets embraced.

This little girl, wearing a Michael Jackson ‘Bad’ tshirt from 1988 looks up to me

And wonders why I have

Strayed so far

From what brought rhythm and life

To my aortic valves.

The busyness and hectic anxiety of May

Left me yesterday

But the residue clings bitterly dry and weakening.

I miss my words.

My dissection of society.

Exploration of the world my eyes can barely fathom.

Reaching out with dictations of hope.

This skill,

My gift,

Will be lost

If I don’t work on it.

Discipline.

She will save me

from the flabby arms of laziness.

So here come June.

Every weekday,

Yes five times a week,

I will be here.

Writing.

Musing.

Speaking into both of our lives.

This month I will haul my butt to the water,

Whatever my state, or frame of mind,

and say to my soul

“Drink.”

Deeply.

Richly.

Take what seems like pain

And realise the refreshment.

All May, as I read Isaiah 35 over and over again, You Father said:

“Strengthen the weak hands…the wilderness and dry land shall be glad.”

I won’t pull back.

I won’t resist.

For in the water,

I will see my true reflection.