You are currently browsing the monthly archive for November 2007.
Several months ago, my sweet friend Peggy wrapped up her fight against cancer and went home to be with the Savior she loves. Her funeral was a joyous, sad, sweet affair in which we all had the privilege to glimpse Heaven for a moment. When one of her former pastors rose to speak he quoted her as often saying to him, “Scotty, I do not think you are yet as free as God means for you to be.” We all laughed because that was so Peggy and because the statement rang true for not only Scotty’s life but for all of us as well.
It has been a little over three weeks since a troubled young man with a knife in his hand lay in wait for me while I was running. God delivered me so dramatically that for days I was absolutely high with the realization of just how securely I rest in his hand. From the very beginning, I knew I would go back to the trail to run. The police officers assured me that what happened to me was by far the exception. So, as long as my attacker remains in jail, there is no reason I should not return.
I went right back two days later and I have to admit to being a little jumpy but I am determined that what happened that day will not sow fear into my life, but the freedom God has planned for me instead. I ran again today, and it felt a little better than the last time but it wasn’t long until God whispered to my spirit that just showing up there and muscling through the apprehension is not enough. He wants me to be completely made whole and as long as the tendrils of fear stalk me there I am not truly free to hear his voice.
In short, I am not yet as free as He wants me to be.
And…..I know I can’t get there on my own. It is a perfectly normal and natural response for me to be afraid in when I return there. Yes, God delivered me that morning. The knife remained in the young man’s hand and then, for reasons I am not sure anyone will understand this side of Heaven, at the last moment he turned and ran from me instead of hurting me. Yet…the terror of those few minutes has left an imprint on my soul.
Oh, I have been so blessed. I have not lost one moment of sleep. There have been no bad dreams. When I close my eyes and remember his face so close to mine and that knife in his hand the terror is gone. All of that is miraculous but God wants more for me. He wants me to be able to be so secure and at peace as I run the trail that it is again what it once was for me: a sanctuary where I meet with The Lover of my Soul.
So, at the end of the run I sat on a low stone wall over looking the river. The morning was cold and crisp as brilliant sunlight filtered down through the trees and reflected off the water below. “God,” I prayed. “I want to be that free. Pour out your Spirit on me and take me there….”
An older man entered the trail behind me and smiled when he saw me sitting on the wall, soaking in the beauty of the morning. I smiled back and said hello to which he grinned and said, “Don’t jump.”
I laughed to myself as he walked away, rose and dusted off my running pants. “Don’t jump”…mmmm…I couldn’t be further away from that…
God is good.
Believe it or not, some of the most frequent hits I get on this site are for pictures of the cornrows I have done on my girls’ hair. So, I feel I need to make a disclaimer….I do not for a moment think my cornrows are the most impressive on the planet. On the contrary, I am learning all the time. I am a self-taught white mother of black children who has worked 
hard to learn to style African hair for two reasons: I love my girls and I love their hair.
With that said, here are the most recent photos of my work on my baby girl who is 4 years old.
This is a style I tried on her older sister this summer and I really liked it. I drew a part to divide the front section from the back and then a side part to divide the hair nearest her face. Then, I cornrowed straight down on either side of her face. My girls love this style and it are convinced they are quiet the princesses when they wear it.
This next photo is a shot from the top which better illustrates how I divided the hair. Before this cornrowing, her hair had 
been curly, otherwise known as “frolicious” in our house, for a week. (My girls do not have extremely coarse hair.) I think it is too cute curly but we always, always pay for it when it is time to comb it out. There was much crying, wailing, and gnashing of the teeth. We were both ready for cornrows and beads after that!
I had family in for the holiday (all Caucasian) and purposely waited until they went out shopping before we began the process of the combing/detangling because I knew it would be culturally unfamiliar to them and they would probably think it was horrible. They returned when I was about half way through with the rows and it was still drama! My girl was being pretty good but the white relatives all felt so sorry for her which was crazy to me. The clash of the cultures for sure!
This next shot is of the back. I drew a horizontal part across the back of her head so that we would have beads staggered. 
Also, this will allow me to pull the upper section up into a ponytail later for a different version of the style. Look how long her hair has grown! She has probably three to four times the amount of hair she had when she came home from Haiti.
This last photo is her swinging her hair back and fourth to make the beads click. She was having a great time as you can tell, but when she was finished swinging them she looked at me, giggled and said, “Ow.”
I thought that was hysterical since I am constantly teasing them that they are going to “put an eye out” if they don’t stop swinging those beads.
The moral of this post is, when it comes to combing and braiding there may be wailing and tears in the beginning but in the 
end, everyone is glad we went to the effort, especially the princess who has yet to stop strutting about. Sassy, sassy, sassy…
Book Reviews for Nappy Hair and I Love My Hair as first printed in the November 2007 issue of Adoptive Families magazine
Nappy Hair By: Dr. Carolivia Herron
Nappy Hair, by Dr. Carolivia Herron, is far more than a simple children’s book. Both a joyful celebration of black hair, and of African American culture, it is written in the traditional “call and response” form of storytelling and beautifully illustrated by Joe Cepeda.
Nappy Hair exploded into controversy in 1998 when a white teacher was accused of propagating negative minority stereotypes for using the book in her classroom. Indeed, it is a book which must be read to the very end in order to grasp the complete message the author is communicating.
Some may find certain wording in the book offensive. In one section, the storyteller describes angels accusing God of being “mean” and “ornery”. Not until the conclusion, when God looks down on the newborn baby and says “well done” and that “one nap of her hair is the only perfect circle in nature” does one realize that the angels were short sighted all along.
In the end, the reader comes to understand that the child is treasured by her Maker and large extended family as well, right down to the very last “nappy hair” on her head.
I Love My Hair! By: Anastasia Tarpley
I Love My Hair!, by Anastasia Tarpley, is a tenderly penned tribute to African hair and the bond formed between mother and daughter through the ritual of combing, parting, and braiding.
In a world where girls of color are told far too often that their hair is “bad”, Ms. Tarpley has woven for us a stellar example of the power of truth spoken in the quiet moments of life and the treasure of a rich heritage passed down from one generation to another. Along the way, she has masterfully entwined bits of the past, securing it to the present by the thin strand of a braid in a mother’s hand.
E.B. Lewis’ soft watercolor illustrations are a perfect accompaniment to this sweet story of self acceptance, empowerment, and hope for a bright future expressed in the words of the little girl who narrates her story for us, “One of these days I just might take off and fly!”
Children of color and their parents are the target audience for I Love My Hair! but its message is certain to appeal to children universally. It is sure to become a favorite, to be read over and over again.
*These books and other resources for adoptive and ethnic families can be found at my Amazon affiliate. I am currently compiling a wide variety of toys, books and games for children of color just in time for the holiday season. Go to www.sherrigragg.com and click “resources” or click the following link: http://www.sherrigragg.com/gpage1.html
Reviews by: Sherri Gragg
I haven’t given an update on Puzzle the Puppy lately but that does not mean she has been quietly chewing on her bone and out of trouble. On the contrary…..
It was about 15 minutes before we were to sit down for the Thanksgiving meal I had been preparing for a day and a half. I was distracted by the turkey and Puzzle the Puppy was on the prowl. She had just been spayed 3 days before and we were attempting to keep her “quiet”. Oh, foolish, foolish humans!
The downstairs bedroom of our new home smells like cigarette smoke so I have been working hard to remove the odor. Febreze? Did not even touch it. Then, I remembered someone telling me coffee would do the trick. I filled a bowl with coffee beans and stuck it under the bed. I was just pouring the gravy into the gravy boat when my 12 year old came into the room with the bowl, now half empty, in his hands.
“I caught Puzzle eating coffee beans,” he said.
My husband and I ran to the computer and Googled “What to do if your dog eats coffee beans.” The reply: induce vomiting at soon as possible. Then, we Googled “How to make your dog vomit”. The reply: Syrup of Ipecac or two teaspoons of hydrogen peroxide. We had the hydrogen peroxide so while the rest of the family sat down to say thanks and carve the turkey, I grabbed the dog and headed to the upstairs bathroom.
“You guys go ahead,” I said. “I’ll be back later.”
I squirted the peroxide in the puppy’s mouth. She liked it and swallowed (of course). Then, I waited and prayed.
“God, please let this work. We don’t have the money to go to an emergency pet clinic on Thanksgiving day and if this dog dies, the kids will be heartbroken….”
Then, I heard it. Like some subterranean creature rising from the deep the rumblings began….
The end? About a cup and a half of coffee beans on the bathroom floor. Puzzle the Puppy was fine. I rubbed her head and told her she had earned a time out. In her crate she went. I went to the top of the stairs and yelled, “It worked!” which was met by a chorus of “Yeah!” and “Thank you Jesus!!!!”
You would think the dog would never want to touch coffee again. On the contrary, she now runs into the kitchen every time she smells a cup brewing. Go figure.
Here is a picture I took of her a couple of months ago. She went through a stage where she would sneak into the bathroom, grab the end of the toilet paper and run around the house. One day, I took a photo of her. Every time I see it, I just think, “Can’t we all just get along?”
The little ones are running amuck because I am working in the kitchen. They crowd the bar to help make pecan pies then run outside to ride their bikes. Soon they are back and now I am laboring over sweet potato pies while they giggle over their playdough in the other room.
They are never, ever still it seems. In and out of the room, in and out of the house and a thousand times someone says, “mmmmm….what smells so good?”
And I am remembering the last time I cooked Thanksgiving dinner. It was two years ago in that heartbreaking doldrum between my visit to Haiti when I met my babies for the first time and the second week of December when they finally came home. Thanksgiving was dark that year for me. It is so hard to practice the discipline of thankfulness with a broken heart.
That Thanksgiving I really was wondering if they would ever come home at all. There was no joy in the preparations. I did not want to spread the cloth on the table or stuff the turkey. I was facing the unbelievable: another holiday without my girls and if I could not see them, I did not want to see anyone at all.
I remember wrestling with despair that Thanksgiving morning as I watched the sun rise and coming to the conclusion that I was at the crossroad of decision once again. Would I choose hope or despair? Would I be consumed by my loss or choose to be thankful for the blessings before me?
I pull two ruined pie crusts out of the oven as these memories swirl through my mind. They are not burned, just falling apart. Suddenly, my sweet girl is at my elbow with only one thing to tell me.
“Mommy, I’m thankful I have you…”
I smile at her, give her a squeeze and tell her I am thankful for her too. Then, I break off a piece of ruined crust and hand it to her. She nibbles it, savoring it. She still takes forever to eat something she loves. I wonder if she will truly ever forget what it feels like to never have enough.
I motion to the bar stool and she climbs up to have a seat. Then, I put the entire crust before her. She giggles with delight and then calls her brother to share. Together they eat both broken pie crusts while I take out the trash. When I come back inside they are laughing because the pans are clean. I know they have ruined their next meal but I don’t care, because my girls are home and now there is more than enough.
Everyday miracles all around…..
It is a cold Tennessee morning. By 8:00am breakfast is over, a few chores have already been tackled and four of the five kids are outside in the backyard on their bikes. “The Twins” are learning to ride without training wheels. (Of course, they are not really twins but that is what they tell everyone…) My older daughter is teaching her little sister and I am assisting Little Man.
He climbs on the bike and I take up my post behind him with my hand on the seat. He is so excited. One foot is on the pedal, the other braced on the grass ready for take-off. I lean down and whisper conspiratorially in his ear.
“I’m The Man…”
He echoes me, “I’m The Man…”
“The Man can!”
“The Man can!” he giggles in reply.
Then I give him a shove while yelling, “Pedal! Pedal! Pedal!”
He does it! Wobbling, halting, recovering, he does it! Then, when bike and boy collapse in the grass oh, so very far away he jumps to his feet and into the air, pumping his fists high above him.
“I did it! I did it! I did it!”
And I am reminded of the power of the words we say over ourselves and our children. I am reminded to speak life, not death over all of us. It is not a new concept and contrary to what many people think it was not original to Norman Vincent Peale. The Creator of our minds said it first.
“Summing it all up, friends, I’d say you’ll do best by filling your minds and meditating on things true, noble, reputable, authentic, compelling, gracious—the best, not the worst; the beautiful, not the ugly; things to praise, not things to curse.” Philipians 4:8 The Message
Amen.
He came out of the bushes so fast. One moment I was absorbed in the peaceful revere of my run and prayer, the next he was crashing towards me. I knew when he looked straight into my face and did not slow down that I was in trouble.
“This is not good,” I thought.
I had so been looking forward to that run. My heart was heavy and I knew if I could just get to the trail, run and pray, that God would minister to my weary soul. I dropped the kids off at school and went straight there. As I was preparing to get out of my van, a car pulled into the narrow lot a short distance away. A young man was in the driver’s seat. I saw him get out and immediately run down the trail.
“That is weird,” I thought. “Nobody runs in jeans….”
Stranger still, after I reached the running path I found he seemed to simply have disappeared.
I walked for a moment to get warm and then began to run. Once again, I was amazed at how quickly the roar of the road behind me gave way to the gentle gurgle of the river, the whisper of wind through the branches above, the songs of the birds as they called to each other….
My heart immediately turned to prayer as my feet pounded out the paved trail beneath me.
I met two friends on the trail as they made their way home. We spoke briefly as we ran past each other. I ran on in silent communion with my Maker. My path left the cocoon of the woods and stretched into a more open place as I traced the river’s edge. I met another runner but he did not return my “good morning” and then I saw no one else.
I was unusually tired and would stop to walk at times to catch my breath. I pushed myself to my turn around point and began the run back to the beginning. Occasionally I heard strange splashing in the water below and I wondered where the young man in the jeans had gone. Was he throwing stones in the river? A nature lover, perhaps?
But mostly I prayed.
“God, give me pockets of joy….my heart is so weary….show me how to rise above…..”
Look around you, my child..
The morning was clear, cold, and awash with the colors of autumn. I praised him for the trees, the crisp air, the strength I had, even though it was small. I rounded a bend and ran into the morning sun so bright it obliterated everything else from view.
“Father, when I die, let this be how I go to Heaven. Let me run into the sun on a morning just like this and as I run let it give way to eternity….”
I ran on, deeply in prayer. A short distance before I reached the fork in the trail I neared a bend that was obscured from the view of the homes in the adjoining neighborhood and as I did, a song we sing in church came into my mind.
Angels watching over me…angels watching over me…
“My God,” I prayed, “I believe I am in the palm of your hand. I believe your angels are right here beside me. Let them protect me, strengthen me, sustain me…”
Within seconds, the still of the moment was shattered by the sound of him running straight for me. I must have stopped. I know I screamed. I began backing away from him, screaming still. Then, I looked down and saw the knife in his hand.
“A knife! He has a knife!”
He ran straight towards me with that knife in his hand, then in the very second he was close enough to reach out and grab me, he looked startled and without explanation, turned and ran back up the path that led to our cars.
My heart was pounding, my chest heaving, and I began to run again. I paused, unsure of what to do. If I attempted to reach my car, I knew he could be waiting for me at any place along the trail and I would be trapped between the steep bank of woods and the river’s edge. I knew he could out run me. He was so, so fast. I had no doubt he could overpower me and he was armed.
So, I ran to the fork and took the opposite trail that led into the neighborhood.
And then, I began to cry.
I ran up to a house with cars in the drive and a dog in the yard. I rang the bell, but no one came. I was afraid then. What if he came back?
“God, please let someone open the door…”
I ran across the cul-de-sac and rang another bell. This time a woman answered the door.
“Could I please use your phone to call the police?” I asked.
She let me in and dialed the number for me. Soon, an officer arrived. He asked questions, walked me down to the trail, radioed back and forth, and then surprise crossed his face as he said, “I think we’ve got him…”
He drove me to meet some other officers at my car. I could not stop shaking, but I did not cry again. The sergeant took me to identify the man.
“That’s him…”
“She doesn’t have to look at me, I did it….”
He came to the trail only for me. He had preyed on so many others in the past, but that day he chose me.
Then, they took me to the police station to give a written statement and talk to the detectives. Everyone was kind.
“What does your husband think of this?” the detective asked.
“He doesn’t know yet,” I replied.
Questions and more questions. Even after they brought me coffee I could not stop shaking. Then, they said I could go.
“Wait,” I told them. “I have something else to say. I don’t know if you are a Christian, but I want to tell you what happened right before he came after me.”
Angels watching over me….
Later that night, I remembered the very last words of my prayer before he tore through the bushes, and into my life.
“My God, reveal yourself to me in this place…”
I was so honored to see the true character of God in that moment. Powerful. Faithful. Good. Loving.
And…He has me, so safely, right in the palm of his hand.
