The Last One

 Something changes in you, in your generation, when you realize that the last of your familial elders has made her transition from this Earth.

That was the feeling I had when I received the news a week ago that she passed away.

When are we ever ready to suddenly be the grown-ups in the room?

My first cousins and I all looked at each other like, wait, wait, we don't have any Aunts or Uncles anymore. The vacuum was felt, even as we believe our ancestors are a part of us and their memory remains, to suddenly be in the universe without the seven of the fourteen who were the backdrop of our lives, was shocking in ways we are still absorbing.

Everyone is spread out now, no longer centrally located in the town our parents migrated up north to, we are literally around the world. Some were able to make it in, others were able to tune in via the power of technology.

There is a silence that is so loud when you are sitting there.  

We do as African Americans do and talk about how she looked. The funeral home did a great job on her, she looked like the way we all remembered her. She wore her favorite color - blue - and just looked like she was sleeping. None of the signs of the Alzheimers were on her face.

After the services and internment in the new (past twenty years now) family cemetery, we went to a restaurant to eat. The elders weren't here for us to gather at one of the Aunt's houses who would always have pound cake and coffee. Hardly anyone lived in the area anymore, so we gathered around a table where no one had to cook.

And then we laughed. And hugged. And snapped photos. And remembered.

Then, we pulled out notebooks or like one of the younger generations, the smart phone, and looked at our ancestry and started unraveling mysteries our our grandfather with the one-drop of African American blood who gave most of us our height.

The thing we did the most was appreciate the family into which we were privileged to be born. We loved the many hues of us and the multiple generations. We were fruitful and multiplied. The lot of us fulfilled the dreams of the elders who chose other suns to find opportunity.

Generation after generation now, we stopped counting at five, have taken the baton and run with it, that is what we want and hope.

The last one is gone now and we carry on, holding memory and loving this space.

We are the elders now.

Confessions of a Called Woman

 I have been on a life journey for a while, but then, all of us who are in the between space of first breath to last breath are on that same travel.

For me, it has been trying to become who I believe the God of the Universe created me to be.

Why someone like me, fifth born, last daughter, grew up motherless, would be called into ministry and spend years figuring it out.

When I was still-and-yet seeking my way, a little, tiny afro-wearing, walnut colored African American woman came into my hospital room in the week hours of the morning. She was a hospital chaplain and was assigned to visit those who were in pre-op. For me, it was an emergency surgery for a swollen gland on my neck that threatened to cut off life and voice. 

So she politely asked to enter my room and sat on the window sill to just be with me while I waited. My husband was traveling for work, my daughters were early elementary school, my youngest son was away at college, so I was in the quiet spaces of being alone facing a major surgery.

Being a chaplain now myself, I understand the vulnerability of that moment and entering someone's room at 5 o'clock in the morning.

We chatted. 

Up-to-that-point, I had neither met a Chaplain before and certainly not a Black woman one. I was intrigued.

I asked her about her studies and how she came to be in that space and then she told me about the seminary where I eventually attended and graduated.

Funny thing, I never saw that woman again and couldn't pick her out if I had to, but she was there and she listened with all her senses.

Then she said something to me that for a decade, I haven't forgotten, "Who's to say your writing isn't your ministry?"

Now, if you know me, you know that I have been putting pen to paper or fingers to keys for a very long time, trying to make sense of the world as it unfolds. This very space, long before influencers or instagram was the place to share moments, I was writing here. Before that, it was with Helium. 

But writing as ministry?

That was the first time I'd heard it.

How?

I wanted to know how this could be and somewhat being in the space of caring for children while my husband's very demanding career was all the focus, I had to just try to get the words in when I could.

My book reviews started over a decade ago, my poetry long before that, I even have a manuscript written, and since that time, more scholarly papers than I ever thought.

Ministry in words?

Of course it makes sense to me now. 

So, here is my confession, I took what she said to heart, and tried to fit into spaces in public ministry that went on to take up the last 8-10 years of my life. Since then, I've earned another Master's degree and have been actively looking at doctoral programs. I've presented at scholarly seminars and published scholarly papers. 

But to center the quiet spaces of hearing what the God of the Universe wants me to say to the world, to make that the center of my vocation, and to be unapologetic about it?

I haven't fully done that yet.

And that is my confession.

My repentance.

I will be sixty in a few months, and in reaching that milestone that half my father's siblings never reached, I'm facing my own "more years behind me than in front of me" as my father said. I have a sense of urgency to me now.

The world is lost. 

We have more lost children since October than in so many wars.

Just this past week and yesterday, even, the undereducated and un-enlightened in two states just voted to have a narcissistic criminal as their party candidate for the upcoming election.

There is a space for those of us who ponder.

But that is also the space for those who studied writing and journalism were targeted and called all manor of everything but someone deeply loved by the God of the Universe. That is intentional.

Writing is freedom.

My ancestors, as one descended from those Born on the Water™ as Professor and Journalist, Nikole Hannah-Jones coined us, were among those who were denied the right to learn, think, and create for themselves. 

Reading and writing is liberation.

Reading and writing and thinking is justice and a way out of oppression.

I am giving myself a reclamation and transformation, my own Sankofa moment to renew and resurrect what was placed in me before I was born.

In speaking it, or in this case writing it, I am claiming it.

The Comfort of Solitude: The Peace of Place

 It is scary how much I enjoy my time at home.

Like really love it.

I am an Introvert.

A true one, that INFJ on the Myers-Briggs, the very rare three-percent.  Now, I'm in good company, they tell us that those other Advocates include President Jimmy Carter and Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King. Jr. Idealists and faith-filled people who observe the world from a wholistic position to think of how it can be better.

And homebodies.

Even if their bodies are not at home, they are more comfortable in solitude.

In my theological imagination, I've often said that the man, Jesus, was INFJ. So were some of his disciples.

I believe my late father also had this personality type and when he wasn't advocating for social justice in my second hometown, he was ensconced in his home library reading.

He was the one who introduced me to the love of story and the comfort of a good library. From him, I gained my awe of the local town library or bookstores.

The other thing he taught me was that there is a resiliency that comes with being from a place, even if adopting that place, and that there was some power in being sure your home could hold all your dreams. He showed me how to love what I have and to make the most of it.

It has been cold in the Northeast, like much of the country, and I don't have all my winter gear with me, so thinking about the lessons of my father turned me to my kitchen to see what I could make.

Yesterday, I made a pot of black beans and mixed rice. Only with the seasonings I had at home, it wasn't my best and could have used the sautéed onions, but it was comforting. Same with the homemade biscuits I made to go with it.

By that time, I had been been in the house for days and had no desire to get out in the freezing cold.

And I knew the place that privilege afforded me.

Today wasn't different. I made coffee at home, had a nice smoothie for breakfast, and enjoyed an Affagado for evening dessert. That is what made. me think about how comfortable I've made this place, this dwelling.

I have never needed crowds or approval, not even the influencer type that has everyone tripping all over themselves to tell every moment of their lives for TikTok, Instagram, or YouTube. I'm good over here in the quiet hum of the stove fan or the occasional churning of the electronic ice machine. I'm comfortable in my solitude.

What is it about being fully aware and at peace with oneself that we often miss it as Americans who rarely, if ever, just take the time to be present with their thoughts? Are we, the collective we, afraid of what may speak in the silence? Are we afraid of what we may confront about ourselves and this country Are we just so used to being cogs-in-a-wheel that say our only worth is if others can see us and ascribe some value to our existence?

I've been thinking about this a lot lately as I journey toward another milestone (thank God!) birthday of existing in this space called Earth. 

How have I lived into my gifts and calling? How can I do more? Will I make an impact if I am not comfortable with my own thoughts and have taken the time to analyze them before going out in the world? How much am I rested and able to be my full Empath self in the spaces where I encounter so much hurt and pain? Is being at home replenishing or is it just my safe space? Or both?

I ponder a lot.

While sipping on my Affagado with locally made ice cream, relishing the taste of the hand poured coffee directly brewed onto my ice cream in this handmade little demitasse, all I could ponder was how many people have a safe space to just be complete in their thoughts? To not see going shopping as entertainment, but to really just stand and look at the snow or at the red bird that was outside my window today. What are we missing and what can we reclaim?

There is something to be said about peace and having a place where one's soul is quiet.

That for me is my home in the cold winter months. I like my books, my coffee, my comfy blankets, my cozy socks, and my oversized sweat pants. I enjoy being "in" and have no desire to be seen. Maybe that makes me like the bears in our state who hibernate during the winter months. Not sure yet, but even when the kids were home for the holidays, I just wanted to watch them, didn't want to go out. I only did if they drove. 

So if I could utter a dream or prayer for what is still unfolding in 2024 that will be a very challenging and complicated year; it is that everyone can find peace, solicitude, and comfort in their dwelling. Ultimately, isn't that what every human being desires? I pray for them to have what they need so they can spend time attending to their soul and not to survival. I know what is happening in the world and what has been lost when people do not have peace in their place.

For these past few days that I've been able to be inside before my vocation calls me back out, I am being sure to inhale in the sound of silence and the comfort it brings. I want it to be a practice, to still my heart, to quiet my soul, to settle my spirit. Then, when I am at renewal and filled with peace, I am ready to step across the threshold, in my layers and heaviest coat I can find, and see what the world is saying.