A Little More Nonsense, Please.

On the way to church, our 7 year old boy announced he knew what those letters on the gear shift represent.

“Ok,” said Dad.  “What does the “D” stand for?”

“Drive,” the boy answered.

“Good,” said Dad.  “What about the “R”?”

“Reverse!”

“Ok, how about the “P”?”

Boy had to think for a moment on that one.

“Mmmmm,” he said.  “I know!  Pursue!”

Laughter all around.

“Pursue?  That’s good,” said Dad.  “Ok, how about the “N”?”

Boy knew the answer to this one right away.

“Nonsense!”

Mom totally wants a minivan that has gears for both “Pursue” and “Nonsense”.

Finally Able to Cry

Yesterday, I was finally able to cry.  It has been three weeks since the earthquake devastated Haiti, and my heart has been heavy with grief, but somehow I was just so overwhelmed by it that I was beyond tears. 

It is not that I don’t care, or have removed myself from the reality.  Actually, I have obsessed with the news out of Haiti.  Each morning, I reach for my phone to check the latest on CNN.  I scroll through the headlines, searching for some new tidbit countless times each day.   It is the last thing I do before going to sleep at night.  As the days have worn on post disaster, I have had to search more and more diligently for some new word of the land of my daughters’ birth.

Moments have slipped into days.  Days have drifted into weeks, and still I have kept the vigil.

But I couldn’t shed tears until yesterday when I ready the Livesays’ last blog post.  Then, I knew it was time.  I made a cup of tea and told the kids I would be in my room for a bit.  I sat down on the floor with the cup of tea in front of me as the setting sun cast long  shadows on the hardwood.

I wondered how I could be surrounded by such beauty, and security, my kids shouting and playing happily right outside my door, when death and destruction stalked the streets of Port-Au-Prince. 

I began to sob.  I felt like I could cry forever.  I wept for the dead, and those who are forever maimed.  I wept for the suffering of the children in tent cities, traumatized and separated from their parents.  I wept for the countless thousands who are sleeping under sheets, and tarps as the rainy season looms on the horizon.  I wept for the mothers who watched their babies die, and for others who sit outside crumbled buildings where their children are entombed.

No reason to stay.  Unable to leave.

I wept for people like the Livesays, who were in Haiti before the earthquake- good people, doing good work, who are now forced to evacuate, leaving their hearts behind.

And I asked God why.  Why?  Why?  Why?  Why Haiti?

It was a storm of grief- the tears of a heartbroken child.  Somewhere in the middle of it, I remembered the last time I cried lie that.

It was four and a half years ago, and I was weeping over Haiti then too.  At the time, it appeared we were only weeks away from bringing home our babies when we received word that the Haitian government had suddenly nullified all passports of children who were in the adoptive process.  We would be required to start the passport process over from the beginning.  It was another open-ended delay, and a terrible crushing blow.

I was at the absolute end of all my strength that day, and I lay facedown on the floor of my living room and wept until the carpet beneath me was soaked, and I was completely exhausted.  I was so angry at God that I slammed shut the door to my heart, driving Him away.  I didn’t want to talk to Him.  I knew He could have prevented my heartbreak and did not. 

When I finally spoke to Him, my prayer was a bitter, ugly thing.  I asked Him if he could please just close the door a little earlier next time, because it hurt too much to think I was about to take a step closer to my girls, only to have the door slammed in my face.

At last, I was quiet.  Spent.  That was when He spoke to me.

He whispered to my spirit that nothing could separate me from his love…not even my anger.

Grace, unfathomable grace, has a way of drawing heartbroken children back into the Father’s arms, and that is where I ran headlong.  I still didn’t understand, but I was willing to trust that He loved me, and in His wisdom, He had it all under control.

That day was a turning point for me.  It was a moment when I learned what was my responsiblity and what was God’s.  I found out that I am absolutely miserable when I try to take on what belongs to Him.

I think all of us want to believe God is big enough, good enough, to save against all odds those trapped in the rubble.  We stretch our faith to conceive that He can deliver, even when it seems there is no way.

But how much greater faith is required to believe that he can somehow wade His way into the midst of death, decay, suffering, and loss, and make something glorious?  How much larger is our belief when we are able to take our hands off the controls, and trust that He is wise, good, loving, and able?

“My God,

I don’t understand right now, but I take dear Haiti and place her in your hands once again.  Please help. 

Precious Life Giver, walk through the tombs.  Sweet Rose of Sharon, disperse the scent of death.  Balm of Gilead, heal.  Give the oil of gladness, instead of mourning.  Beauty for ashes….

Come.

-Amen”

Falling Down

On a table in my living room two statues, once carve by a nameless Haitian artisan, stand.  One is a statue of a Haitian woman, with some burden balanced skillfully atop her head.  The other is a Haitian man, bending over to play a drum.  They are colorful, and beautiful and I love them.  There is just one problem, they keep falling over because they sit atop inadequate bases.

I vaccum the floor, and sit them upright.  The kids flop down on the couch, and they fall down.  I walk through the semi-darkness in the morning to make a cup of tea, and stand them up again.  Someone slams a backpack down a bit too hard, and down they go.  Over the years, I have dug them from beneath the end table, and sofa countless times.  I wish I could say they have survived their frequent tumbles unscathed but that would be untrue.  Their bright Caribeean paint is chipped in places, and the woman has lost part of her arm.  I guess some people would become exasperated with them and toss them away, but I can’t.  I love them.  After all, it is not their fault there is no stable place to plant their feet.

Much like Haiti.

Haiti’s Treasures

My Dear Haiti,

Broken, bleeding, your streets awash with blood and salty tears, take this small comfort-

Your treasures are here with me.

They are wrapped up in mocha skin and curls, dancing in my living room.  They are climbing the tree in the front yard, and turning cartwheels in the house, their pink tennis shoes just missing the t.v.  They are racing their brother to the fence, and laughing out loud when they get there first.

Sometimes, they burst through the front door at the end of the day, when there is something good cooking on the stove, and declare with delight that it smells like home. 

They are strong and healthy, funny and compassionate, beautiful and generous.

Your treasures, my dear one, are safe.  They are here with me.

But they love you still.  Sometimes, they weep for you, but your relentless courage courses through their veins, and they always find a way to smile again, hope again.  Just like you.

There are moments when they long to see you, feel you, taste you just one more time;  and when you suffer, they grieve.

I think that this day when all is dark for you, I will hold them more closely.  I won’t scold them for leaving their backpacks on the floor, or for eating too many sweets.  And tonight, when they are tucked safely in their beds, while you suffer in the streets, I know I will slip into their room quietly and just watch them sleep.

There in the dark, I will shed tears for you, Haiti, and when my tears are spent I will gently kiss their faces, still and peaceful with sleep, and I will pray for you.  I will pause there in the quiet, overwhelmed with the wonder that you, who are so desperate, entrusted me with such a priceless gift- your daughters.

Take comfort, beautiful island.  I will guard them closely and love them well.  Your treasures are safe; they are here with me.

Love Has Come to Stay

Four years ago today.  As the two of us stare at that first photo of us together on a rooftop in Haiti, I am struck most by her eyes.  They look…weary.  Battleworn.  Impossibly saturated with grief. 

She touches the picture gently with a mocha brown finger.  “You are smiling,” she says.  “I am not.”

“Smiling” hardly covers it.  I was beaming- so thrilled to hold my daughters for the first time after almost two years of longing for them.

But she was broken.

Soon after that photo was taken, she began to wail, pacing back and forth.  I tried to hold her, but she would not let me.  I offered a snack.  She would not eat.  I tempted her with bright, new toys.  She turned away.

I didn’t understand it at all then.  The orphanage told me they had explained I was coming and that she was excited.  I felt rejected and helpless.  If only I had known then, what I know now- that the beautiful little girl in my arms had suffered more in the previous two years than would have seemed possible to me. 

The orphanage undoubtably saved her life, but it was also a place of such desperate hunger that she resorted to eating anything she could scrounge to fill her little stomach.  A lime given to her for a bee sting.  Her own fingernails.  A piece of plastic once….

It was a place of terror too, where the very people entrusted to offer her care were often the ones who injured her the most viciously.  She learned to be wary of any change for fear that it would bring some new abuse.

I stare into those deep brown eyes in the photo, filled to the brim with sorrow.  How could she have known that love had come to stay?

I wish I had known then, what I know now.

“Look at your eyes,” I say.  “So tired.  So sad.  No wonder you didn’t trust me…”

She scoots closer to me, and I wrap an arm around her.  Our eyes fill with tears as I recount to her one of her own memories, which she has since forgotten.

“How do you remember this stuff?” she asks.

“That is my job,” I tell her.  “To remember things for you, so that you don’t have to anymore.  I don’t know how it works, but it seems that sometimes when you tell me the bad things, it is like I carry them afterwards, instead of you.  Then, you are not so sad about them.”

“But then you’re sad!” she says.

“Yes, but I am okay,” I reply.

Ok?  Yes.  But I will never be the same.  Each recounting of the nightmares she lived in that place have carved deep, winding paths through my soul. 

“I’m still a little sad,” she says.

“Yes,” I reply honestly.  “And you always will be .  It won’t keep you from the life God has for you, but you will carry it always.”

She nods solemnly with more understanding than should be possible for a nine-year old child.

Then, like sunshine breaking through the clouds, she smiles radiantly through her tears, wraps her arms around me and hugs me tightly.

“I love you!” she says.

I hold her for a long moment and tell her I love her too, and how much I appreciate her giving me the chance.  Then, she bounds off to bed- full, healthy, safe, and strong.

Because love has come to stay.

An Interview with Dr. JoAnne Cornwell, Founder of Sisterlocks

Check out my interview with Dr. JoAnne Cornwell at www.braidsbeadstruth.wordpress.com

Oddball Kindness

In a neighborhood of carefully structured normalcy, my house is the oddball.  Most of the yards are 1/4 acre.  My home sits on almost one full; touching six other properties.  There are no carefully manicured Hollies, and Begonias lined up in rows like soldiers going to battle here.  Instead, Zinnias, roses, Cleomenes, Sunflowers, herbs, and vegetables race along beside one another like children running out to play.

The other homes sit close to the street.  My front walk meanders along for a bit:  long enough to enjoy my garden, or be annoyed by the journey, depending on the personality of the visitor.

Most of the other homes have almost no front porch at all.  My house has two large ones:  one up, one down.  Best of all, I have not one front door, but six- three for each porch.

It is no mansion, but it is full of light, and odd shapes.  Each window looks out onto something lovely, and green. The living room is not rectangular, or square; it is an octagon.  The domed ceiling above is painted like the sky, and  if one takes the time to look closely, an Apatosaurus, and Stegosaurus can be spotted in the clouds.

How strange.  How delightful.  I love this home.

You see, for me, this place is God’s persistent declaration to me: “I love you.  I delight in you…..”

“Will you please sit down and listen for a minute?”

Sometimes, I neglect to heed His call completely.  Other times, I stop my body, but my mind races on out of control.   A wonderful thing happens when I finally settle in, get quiet, and open my heart:  I find God doesn’t speak to me like I speak to myself at all.

Sometimes, I don’t even realize how hateful my thoughts are.

I stub my toe, and I think:  ”I’m clumsy.”

I fumble my words, and it is:  ”How stupid.”

I forget something despite my to-do app, and my calendar with two alerts, and my automatic sync with the calendar on my computer, and I berate myself again:  ”I am so irresponsible!”

One of my children struggles, and I quickly forget all of the hours of training, nurturing, and praying, and I say to myself: “You are a terrible mother.  You have utterly failed.  What do you have to show for the last 14 years of your life?”

Louder, and louder the condemnation. It is pretty appalling the way I speak to this daughter of the King.

But the Father is calling.

“Come, daughter.  Sit down for a moment in this place I have prepared for you.  Feel my breath in the breeze.  Hear my song in the fountain.  See my arms stretched wide in the branches of the oak, and pecan trees.  See my smile in the sunrise, and sunset.  Listen to my laughter in the crackling logs in the fireplace.  Taste my sweetness in a cup of tea at your kitchen table.  I love you.  Rest your weary heart in Me!”

In the words of my dear friend, and wonderful Bible teacher, Kristie McClelland, “God approaches you in kindness.”

Kindness.

It is time to offer myself a bit more of the same.

“And God raised us up with Christ and seated us with him in the heavenly realms in Christ Jesus, in order that in the coming ages he might show the incomparable riches of his grace, expressed in his kindness to us in Christ Jesus.”  Ephesians 2:6 – 7

Stuck On a Rock

Sometimes, the whirlwind of my life just pulls me under and that, my friends, is when disaster awaits.  The older I get, the more I am acutely aware of the fact that the human mind can only process so many things at one time.  Go past that point, and things began to unravel.

When my five kids were smaller, I found myself in one of those seasons.  When my brain was overloaded, it simply deleted things without consulting me about hierarchy- what was important, what was not….

One day, I received a call from the school. 

“Mrs. Gragg, this is the office.  We have your children here.  Are you going to come get them?”

Turns out, it was a half-day and I completely forgot. 

I rushed out the door, and drove frantically across town, berating myself the entire way.  Upon arrival at the school, I bolted out of my car and through the office door where I begged forgiveness.  That was when the secretary offered her version of comfort (or not).

“Yeah, your son said, ‘Sometimes, my Mommy’s brain flushes things.’”

Nice….

Today was one of those days too.  Even though it is a Saturday, I hit the ground running, taking care of things at home.  Mid-day, I took off my “Mommy Hat” and slipped on my “Editor Hat” and rushed off to a meeting across town, gulping down my lunch as I went.  Just as I pulled into the parking lot, I spilled my water in my lap.  (A big “thank you” to the fashion designer who decided to reintroduce dark wash jeans.)  Before I could recover from that shock, I glanced at my watch and realized I was late.  Then, I began to attempt to navigate a very crowded, very tight parking lot.  As I entered the lot, my back wheel bounced up on the curb.  Turns out a lot of people have trouble with the layout of this parking lot and someone got sick of countless tires catching this particular curb.  So, they came up with a solution. 

A solution I saw way too late.

They placed a large boulder at each corner of the entrance.  Run up on the curb now, you confront the rock.

And that is what happened to me, and before I realized my mistake, the rock was wedged underneath the side of my van.  I was stuck.

Forward.  Reverse.  Gas.  Turn the wheel.  Nothing.

Then, a young guy with lots of tattoos left his red convertible to come to my rescue.  (Who knew angels rock tattoos and drive sports cars?)  He was quickly joined by another man with a friendly smile who reassured me he hit the same rock the week before and could get me loose if I would follow his lead.  I promised to do all I was told and got back behind the wheel as they positioned themselves to lift the front of my beat up old minivan. 

A moment later, I was shaken but free and gushing my thanks.  Then, I found my way to a parking space far away from everyone else.  I was tempted to grab my briefcase and run for the meeting.  Instead, I decided to practice something God has been attempting to teach me:  In the moments when life is the craziest, whether due to disaster, exhaustion, tragedy, heartbreak, personal failure, or sheer stupidity, I should ignore my natural impulse (whatever that may be) and stop to take a moment to discipline myself to turn my full focus to God instead.

It is work.  After all, isn’t that when focusing on God is the most difficult?  It is much easier to turn my heart toward God when I am blessed with the quiet of morning, with a cup of tea in my hand.  The truth is though, it is when life is the most chaotic that my need for Him is greatest.

So, I bowed my head and turned my heart toward eternity, and there I discovered what I have been experiencing over and over lately, but still remains a surprise:  God is waiting for me with loving arms open wide.

It is never what I expect.  I think I somehow believe some old lie that He will be disappointed and condemning to me in my weakness and failure, but He is not.  He waits for me in kindness, acceptance, tenderness, and compassion.

I am so thankful He continues to draw me nearer, faithfully removing the lies I have believed for too long.   

So, in honor of Him, I am going to try to offer a little more kindness to myself.  I am going to try to cut myself some slack; give myself a little more grace when I fall on my face.

Or…get stuck on a rock.

New Children’s Book Review and a Chance to Win!

Cruise on over to my other blog www.braidsbeadstruth.wordpress.com or www.familyofcolor.com to learn about the great new book for kids by TIME on the Presidency.  You can enter for a chance to win the book at www.familyofcolor.com

The Motivation for Racism

I have had a tough week.  My husband has been working non-stop; there have been lots of really heavy kid issues.

There was a dead mouse stuck to the intake valve on my fountain, and I had to get rid of it.  Did I mention it was dark when I stuck my hand in the fountain to clear what I thought was leaves stuck to the pump and grabbed the dead mouse instead?

There was a dead opossum to dispose of as well.  Can I just say that there are no words for how bad a dead opossum smells?

So, I decided to take part in a rare luxury for me- I disengaged my brain to wander aimlessly around an antique store near my home.  As soon as I walked in the door, I saw on the wall of the very first booth a large, ornate wooden and glass sign which read, “WHITE RESTROOMS”.

Stunned, I walked over to it and just stood there for a moment trying to process what I was seeing.  When I recovered a bit, I focused in on the price tag below which read, “WHITE RESTROOMS COURTHOUSE PIECE  $245.00″

Courthouse Piece.

This sign, so fraught with oppression and abuse once hung in the the very place justice was supposed to be dispensed.  I wondered just how much justice the people of color received in the courtrooms of that place.  How many of them faced white judges, and all white juries?

Then, I stepped back from the sign and looked around me to find that it was no anomaly.  All around it, and flowing over into the booth behind it were “segregationist memorabilia”.  There was photo after photo of the KKK:  men with white robes and hoods gathered around signs that said “muscle”, children in miniature versions of the garb proudly displayed as “the children of the KKK”, there were women standing tall as they flanked signs with KKK slogans labeled “the women of the KKK”.

There was a picture of a little black boy drinking from a water fountain beneath a sign that said “colored”.

And it went on, and on….

I was angry, and nauseous, but just one questioned burned in my mind, “Why?  What is the motivation for this?  Is this to remember lest we forget what was suffered, or was it to glorify the acts?’

The motivation makes all the difference.

I wandered the store thinking about it, wishing there was some way to know.  I thought of my daughters and how I would hate for them to see those photos, and sign.  I made a note to ask my black friends if they ever went antiquing and how they would feel if they came across something like that.

Then, I saw an older African American man opening one of the cases.  I approached him and asked if he knew who owned the booth up front.  He said that the man was not there at the time, and offered to help me. 

“I just have a question,” I said quietly.

“What is it?  I’ll help you,” he said.

We walked together to the booth.  I pointed to one of the photos and said, “I just want to know what the motivation is for having this here.”

He gazed at the picture silently, then said falteringly, “Well, for history…”

“To glorify that history?” I asked

“No, not to glorify it,” he said, his voice fading away.  “Well,” he said sadly, “It is not the history I particularly like to think about.”

“It made me feel sick,” I said  “I have been in here before, but I guess I just never looked up at the walls.”

He laughed softly and said, “Do you live here?”

“Yes,” I said.

“All your life?”

“Not all my life, but a long time.”

He sighed and said, “Well, you have to develop kind of a thick skin around here.”

Yeah.  A thick skin.

I thanked him and began to walk away, thought better of it and turned back to him. 

“I’m sorry,” I said.  “I’m sorry you have to deal with that.”

He nodded and went back to his work.

I looked around some more, all the while praying about what I could do.  Then, in a booth toward the back I found a coffee mug I liked and as I picked it up, I knew.  I carried it to the front, praying that the Spirit of God would rule in my heart, and not my anger.  I prayed for courage, and the words to say.

The older white man who owns the antique mall rang up my purchase, while making pleasant small talk.  When he was finished, I took a deep breath and began.

“I want you to know that I find the segregationist materials in those two booths very offensive.”

Without hesitation he replied, “But they sell. You wouldn’t believe how much people buy that stuff.”

I was all the sadder.  I told him that it was offensive to me, and that I was sure I was not alone.

He went on to defend the merchandise by saying that a lot of black people buy it.  Maybe that was true, maybe not.  It was not the point. 

He made it quite clear the point was money.

And as I walked away, I thought how much things have stayed the same.

The Dream remains….

“This is our hope.  This is the faith that I will go back to the South with.  With this faith we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope.” – Dr. Martin Luther King, the “I Have a Dream” speech, March on Washington, August 28, 1963