Unlocked, But Secure

This morning I am thinking about how alarmed I was to discover I had slept all night with my front door unlocked!  On my way to the kitchen, I noticed that the latch for the bolt was in a vertical position (open), rather than horizontal (locked).  I’m not quite sure why I hurried over to lock it at that point.  Honestly, whoever…or whatever…had wanted to get in would have been inside already.  Still, I felt relieved as I heard the latch “click” and looked around to note that nothing was disturbed or out of place.  Then, one of my mom’s sayings came to mind:  “You know, God takes care of babies and fools.”  I chuckled to myself, thinking that I was definitely no baby.  And I gave thanks to God for His protection.  The truth is, I had come home exhausted and distracted, and I just didn’t remember to lock the door behind me.  Occasionally, something similar happens to me mentally and spiritually.  When I allow my life to get out of balance, I find myself overwhelmingly weary and unfocused.  That’s when I am prone to the mistake of leaving my heart and mind unguarded, open to a host of opportunistic thieves and predators like doubt, fear, confusion, and discouragement.  Sometimes I marvel that I am not utterly consumed or devoured by these enemies of my soul, but I remember one of my absolute favorite scriptures in Lamentations 3:22—“It is of the Lord’s mercies that we are not consumed, because His compassions never fail.”  As I sit here meditating on this, I am finding relief from a profound truth that “clicks.”  God’s loving grace covers and preserves me...even when I am most clueless and most vulnerable.  In Him I am secure, always.  Amen.                

Salvaged

This morning I am thinking about a recent episode on one of my favorite shows, “Love It, Or List It.”  For the couple whose home was being featured, the kitchen had become a major point of contention.  At the start of the show, the kitchen was described as “dated,” “dull,” and “not functional.”  Of course, by the end of the show, the space had been completely transformed such that it bore no resemblance to what had been.  The part of the renovation I loved most was the cabinets.  The initial plan was to remove the existing cabinets and replace them with new ones.  Upon closer examination, however, the designer recognized the exceptional quality of the wood and the craftsmanship.  So, what she decided to do instead was simply refinish them.  During the reveal, the couple marveled at the absolutely gorgeous “new” cabinets, not immediately realizing that what they were seeing was their very own!  This has me reflecting on the metaphorical house that is my life.  I acknowledge that God has masterfully furnished my life with many treasures—including dreams, gifts and talents, and, most importantly, people who love and care for me.  As time passes, I have a tendency to begin treating these treasures lightly, taking them for granted…sometimes even longing for something better or something more.  In some cases, I have lost sight of their value.  In other cases, I have never really understood or appreciated their true worth.  Today I am resolved not to waste any time fretting or regretting the treasures I have foolishly discarded over the years.  What’s done is done.  However, I will now be more diligent to let my heart and mind carefully survey the blessings that furnish my life.  I pray for wisdom to discern those things that God has placed in my life on purpose, for purpose…those things of great value that should remain.  In my eyes, they may honestly seem common, ordinary, and maybe even boring.  Yet, I will entrust it all to the Designer, Who is willing and able to restore, revive, and renew.  As He reveals the exquisite beauty of what has been salvaged, I will rejoice and give thanks.          

Someone To Dance With Me

This morning I am thinking about what a great time I had listening to live jazz on Saturday night.  The band was incredibly good, with an almost palpable energy and connectedness between and among the musicians.  Their captivating rhythms enticed one couple after another out of their chairs and onto the dance floor.  Honestly, there weren’t exactly any contenders for Dancing with the Stars.  One couple moved as if they were listening to songs that were just a half beat off what everyone else was hearing.  Another couple moved rather stiffly, like two mannequins that had suddenly come to life.  Yet the only thing that seemed to matter to them was that they were dancing together.  I sat and watched all of the couples twisting, turning, smiling, and holding each other.  And I allowed myself to embrace a vision of how awesome it would be to have someone to dance with me.  Today my thoughts have taken me beyond the sights, sounds, and limited space of the room in which I was seated on Saturday to a much larger venue.  The metaphorical dance floor I envision is the wonderful life of love I desire.  The scene playing out in my head is one in which my partner finds me here, waiting.  As we speak to one another, it is clear that we are both hearing the same song…the same melody.  So we dance together, our eyes fixed on one another.   We both know that from now on there will be no more switching partners.  To some looking on, we appear a bit odd, somewhat out of step with those around us.  But it doesn’t matter because we know that together we are made for more than mere conformity.  We are masterfully choreographed and synchronized, each complementing the moves of the other.  Twisting, turning, smiling, and holding each other, we dance to a soundtrack uniquely written, arranged, and directed by our Creator, just for us.  This morning, one special prayer of my heart begins where this beautiful daydream ends.  I will go forth with a soundtrack in my spirit, listening for the one who hears, ready to begin the dance.       

Daddy, The Singing Sensation

This morning I am thinking about my dad’s wonderful gift of singing.  It was one of many things that made me incredibly proud to be his daughter.  When I was very young, I had the unique privilege of getting to see my dad singing on TV on Sunday mornings with a quartet called The Gospel Tornadoes.  Daddy’s rich, melodic bass voice was a special feature of the group’s songs.  In local music circles, he was given the nickname “Thunder,” to characterize his powerful signature sound.  He had numerous invitations to share his amazing gift of song, both from inside and outside of our city.  He even got a gig as a soloist at a local Presbyterian church, where he was the only Black person there on the days when he sang.  My favorite thing was when I got to hear my dad sing with our own church choir.  His voice had astonishing range, and he could sing mezzo soprano notes with the same perfect pitch and control as he could baritone or bass.  Besides the beautiful quality of Daddy’s voice, the beauty of true passion and joy were infused into the songs he sang.  It was quite typical for the congregation to be on its feet whenever he led a song.  It makes me smile today as I recall how singing seemed to energize my dad.  Not only was he very good at it, he genuinely loved it.  Not surprisingly, music and singing were an integral part of life for my siblings and me.  We listened to and sang different kinds of songs by different artists, everything from the Dixie Hummingbirds to James Taylor to the O’Jays.  Honestly, Daddy could sing any and all of it very well.  The rest of us, not so much.  It’s not that our voices were terrible…it’s more that we were just so-so, while he was sensational.  And that’s okay.  It seems that none of us has inherited my dad’s awesome singing gift.  However, without a doubt, he willed to each of us the gift of song.  I am grateful for this legacy, which enriches our lives and keeps us connected to each other.   

Daddy, The Name Caller

This morning I am thinking about the nickname my Daddy gave me when I was just entering my teens.  It all started while the two of us were riding in the car one day, and the song “Brick House” by the Commodores was playing on the radio.  When it got to the part about “36-24-36,” I asked what that meant.  After he explained, I became absolutely intrigued.  As soon as we got home, I found one of my mom’s measuring tapes and headed for my bedroom.  There I eagerly measured myself to see if I met the “brick house” standard.  Suffice it to say, my own dimensions fell short of the ideal described in the song, and I was quite disappointed.  My dad took notice of my sad face as I was returning the measuring tape to its place.  He must have quickly realized what I had been up to, because that’s when he gave me my new nickname.  He started calling me “Condo.”  He said it was because I was still fine, even if I wasn’t a brick house.  (Of course, then, he had to explain to me what a condominium was.)  I cannot adequately describe what a boost that was to my fragile, adolescent self-concept.  Although Daddy was the only one who called me “Condo,” the moniker was adopted in our household without ceremony or question.  Looking back, I see for the first time a powerful lesson in what my dad did when he gave me that nickname.  Essentially, he was teaching me how I can wisely respond to the popular or established standards communicated through music, movies, and other forms of media—whether they relate to beauty, success, love, or happiness.  When I don’t “measure up,” I can look for the value, strength, and worth in my uniqueness.  I don’t need to conform, but neither do I need to condemn.  Rather than lament what I am not, I can acknowledge and celebrate the wonder of who I am.  Sitting here, I realize how I miss being called, “Condo.”  Perhaps the name will be resurrected someday…somehow.  But for now, and for always, I know I can call myself blessed.    

Daddy, The Promise Keeper

This morning I am thinking about how my dad was a man of such honor and integrity.  He could be counted on to keep his word.  If he said he was going to do something, he did it.  When it was time to go to work, he went.  He was not one to call in sick, and definitely not if he wasn’t really sick.  As a part of the choir at church, he made it his business to get to rehearsals.  He didn’t take this service lightly, even though our church probably had no more than sixty members present on a good Sunday.  Daddy took his commitments seriously, regardless of what anyone else did, or thought, or felt.  One of my most treasured memories is of when my dad promised to take us to Disney World.  There were six children, and we were not a financially wealthy family…not by a long shot.  But, since Daddy said we were going, we knew it was a done deal.  It was not a matter of if, but when.  One night he told us that we would need to get up early the next day because we were going to take a trip.  He said it was a surprise.  We were all so thrilled that we put up no objection to an earlier-than-usual bedtime.  The next morning, we got up, ate breakfast, got dressed, and piled into the car.  We rode for quite some time, chatting excitedly about what we were going to see and do when we got there.  (We just knew we were on our way to Disney World!)  We were quite perplexed when the car came to a stop in front of a small shack where there was an old man sitting in the front yard.  Daddy got out of the car and approached the old man, grinning.  Then they embraced.  “Pile out,” my mom directed us.  Reluctantly, we did get out as my brother, Steve, made a wisecrack about the old man being Mickey Mouse.  It turns out the old man was actually one of my dad’s long, lost cousins.  And it turns out that Daddy had promised him, at some point, that he’d come for a visit.  So, we spent that day playing in and around the little shack in a place we later learned was called Okeechobee.   A few weeks later, Daddy really did take us to Disney World, as we knew he eventually would.  I am particularly blessed when reflecting on my dad’s diligence in keeping his promises because it keeps me mindful of how my God is faithful to keep His promises as well.  Sometimes it feels like my life is a series of stops at one “Okeechobee” after another along the way.  But my dad’s example keeps my heart encouraged to know that the very thing God has promised…my own “Disney World”…He will certainly do.            

Daddy, The Comic

This morning I am thinking about my dad’s delightful sense of humor.  He had quite a knack for cracking people up, delivering jokes and quips with perfect timing and often with a paradoxical straight face.  I remember one day while the two of us were riding somewhere in his car.  We passed a woman standing on a corner, and she was wearing lots of makeup.  I mean LOTS of makeup!  Without missing a beat, he said, “She has to wear it like that, baby.  Or else someone might mistake her for something that escaped from the zoo.”  With an incredibly quick and clever wit, Daddy could render all those around him rolling with laughter or trying desperately to suppress it...sometimes at the most inappropriate times and places...while he sat or stood by with unflappable composure and a façade of innocence.  One day some of my mischievous older siblings stumbled upon a previously unbeknownst source of my dad's comedy.  It was a not-so-well-hidden stash of albums featuring Moms Mabley and Nipsey Russell!  We would sneak and play the records while our parents were out, laughing hysterically at the same jokes over and over, as though hearing them for the first time.  With some of the jokes, I didn’t really know what I was laughing about, but it was still funny.  To our surprise, Daddy came home one day while we were playing the “secret” albums.  No one noticed that he had come in the back door.  We were so busted.  He looked around the living room at each one of us, sitting there frozen with guilt and feeling the sting of complicity.  Then he chuckled and headed for his room.  He didn’t have to say it directly, but we knew we had better stick with The Three Stooges and Mel Brooks movies after that.  Looking back, I can see how Daddy’s humor was like a powerful glue in our home.  So many times, it helped to hold us together as a family when we were children.  And even now as adults, I see how it has bonded us to one another as friends.  Certainly my dad's legacy of laughter has remained with us, even to this day.  What a wonderful inheritance. 

Daddy, The Man Who Loved Mom

This morning I am thinking about how greatly my notion of a desirable relationship, romance, and marriage are shaped by the template of my dad’s love for my mom.  I remember how he would bring her beautiful, red roses.  Usually it was for their wedding anniversary, but at other times it was just because.  He would also give her the sweetest cards that made her smile.  I remember how occasionally he’d take her…only the two of them…to get away from us six kids.  They’d go out for a nice, quiet dinner or for a long drive together.  I remember how much they really seemed to like each other.  Sometimes dad would get home from work first, and other times mom would.  But, oh how they each perked up and lit up at the arrival of the other!  I remember how he looked at her, held her, and treated her with such tenderness and affection.  My favorite thing to remember is how I’d lay in bed some nights and hear them talking and laughing in their room…like amicable partners, like faithful companions, like best friends.  I realize how nostalgia can dramatically enhance the images of the mind over time, so one day I asked my mom to talk to me about dad.  Her reaction and her words just melted me and let me know that my recollections were pretty accurate.  It’s hard to describe, but as she spoke it was as if she became young again.  She described him as protective and funny and kind.  What stands out most in my mind is how she said, “He loved me.”  In my present season of singleness, this is the picture I carry around in my heart:  a man who is thoughtful, affectionate, protective, funny, and kind; a man who perks up and lights up when he sees me; a man who will be my trusted and intimate friend; a man of whom I can say, “He loves me.”  There’s a saying I’ve heard that speaks to a woman’s tendency to seek in a man that which she knows well.  The saying is, “We marry our fathers.”  For me, that would be a blessing.           

Daddy, Lifter of the Fallen

I am thinking about two occasions when I fell…hard…and my daddy was there to comfort and take care of me.  One time we were hanging out in the yard together, just talking and laughing, when a neighbor came up to the fence to talk to him.  I was not at all pleased with this intrusion.  So, I headed for the grapefruit tree and started to climb.  My intended strategy was to demonstrate my exceptional skill of upside down, hanging-by-the-legs, branch swinging.  This, I figured, would amaze our neighbor, who was facing me.  Then he would alert my dad (whose back was to me) to turn and focus his attention on my wonderfulness.  I had successfully positioned myself and started to get my rhythm.  Back and forth, back and forth.  Suddenly, there was a loud crack!  I hit the ground with a thud, flat on my back.  I was utterly embarrassed, but at least the neighbor went away.  Another time, I was standing on a seawall while my dad waded in the water below with his crab net.  I could have just sat and enjoyed the view, but I wanted to be close to him.  As he moved more and more to the left, I felt compelled to get up and walk down to be a bit nearer.  Once he had secured a nice catch, he started making his way back to the right…back to the metal tub in which he would unload the crabs.  Of course, I got up and started walking back to the right as well.  I don’t recall if I was looking at my dad or if I became distracted by his net, full of crabs.  Whatever the case, I wasn’t watching where I was going and I walked right off the wall.  Again, I hit the ground…this time with a splash, on my hands and knees.  Again, I was utterly embarrassed, but at least I was closer to my dad.  What I vividly remember about both of those instances was how, in an instant, my dad was at my side lifting me up into his big, strong arms.  Despite any scratches, bumps, and bruises, I believed I would be okay because he was holding me.  Lord knows I’ve fallen lots of times since then.  I’ve fallen on tough times, fallen in love, and fallen out of favor…hard.  Lord knows I’ve borne some emotional scratches, bumps, and bruises too, including some real shiners.  It’s truly amazing, though, that there remains a shield around me that keeps me from being utterly broken and destroyed whenever I fall.  Sometimes it’s utterly embarrassing, but at least I’ve come to truly know God’s grace.  I’m thankful for how my heavenly Father lifts me up in His strong, everlasting arms.  And I know I will be okay because He is holding me. 

Daddy, The Protector

This morning I am thinking about when my dad followed my school bus in his car, all the way to Starkey Elementary.  A desegregation order called for the children in my neighborhood to be bused to schools that were lots of miles and lots of minutes away from our homes.  For my dad, this was at least a forty-five minute drive, one way.  But he did it for a week.  He wanted to make sure I was safe.  There had been incidences in which people used cruelty and violence to express their sore displeasure at having Black children brought into their neighborhoods, to be taught in classrooms alongside their White children.  Being only a second grader at the time, I didn’t really know or understand any of that.  All I knew was, on that first day of riding the bus to my new school, one of my friends said, “There go yo’ daddy!”  She pointed to the back of the bus, where I could see him right behind us.  I felt some kind of special when, for those few days, kids made room for me on the back seat so I could look out the window and see my daddy following.  I knew my daddy could find his way to my new school if he needed to, and it made me feel so secure.  One thing I remember about my elementary school years was that my daddy always seemed to be there.  Somehow he would manage to come pick me up so I could stay after school for special events, like the Fall Carnival and the Spring Fling dance.  He was there to see me perform on stage at evening programs.  And he made sure that I was there, bright and early one Saturday morning, to go on the Student Council trip to Disney World.  As I reflect on those years, I realize that his presence was not only to protect me physically.  He was also there to protect my emotions, my education, and—in a profound way—my childhood.  I’m not altogether sure how Heaven works, but I honestly hope that somehow my daddy knows what an impact his love and sacrifice continue to make in my life.  I hope he knows he helped me to believe that where real love is, I am always well protected.          

Crash!

This morning I am thinking about the bird that flew into the window of my office at work.  The unexpected thud startled me, such that it shook my attention from the task in which I was engaged.  I turned to look just in time to see the poor thing flitting, wobbly and dazed, to a small tree nearby.  There it sat for a while.  I imagined it was trying to get its bearings.  And then it flew away.  Being intrigued, I decided to Google “why birds fly into windows.”  It turns out there are two main reasons, but the one that gave me pause was this:  Birds fly into windows because they don’t see them.  Now, when I first read that, I thought, “Duh!”  But, then, I kept reading.  What struck me was the explanation that birds don’t expect to encounter hard, transparent “walls” in the sky.  For the bird, windows are not supposed to be there.  Of course, the glass in my window was manufactured and intentionally placed there to serve as a barrier.  It was not designed with the bird in mind, but rather for the protection of those on the inside.  An insight that comes to me today from that encounter of Bird vs. Window is that I, too, sometimes find myself crashing into unanticipated barriers unseen and un-fore-seen.  Racism, discrimination, ignorance, malice, duplicity and insincerity…just to name a few.  The walls of strongholds such as these are HUMAN-ufactured and firmly established where I don’t necessarily expect to find them.  They are intentionally placed for the protection and preservation of those who would hide behind them.  They’re not always apparent, but strategically transparent.  That is, until I slam into one of them.  It renders me stunned and disoriented for a bit.  And, man, does it hurt!  But here is where I see a difference between the bird and me.  (Fittingly, the thought fills me with joyful confidence and makes me want to soar.)  Unlike the bird, I don’t have to retreat.  Instead, I have the powerful weapon of faith.  My weapon of faith makes barriers fall with a CRASH!  It clears the way of the path that is intended for me.  And it leads me forward into all that God has purposed for me to know, to do, to have and to be.  Amen.

Seeing and Being

This morning I am thinking about the work week ahead, with all of its potential challenges and its favorable opportunities.  As I sit in prayer and meditation each morning, I like to cast forth a vision of what will be. I know exactly what I need (and want) to accomplish.  I mentally map out the actions I will take and, sometimes, even the words I will say.  I anticipate what I will do if obstacles arise, such as limited time or other resources.  And, then, during my evening reflection I lay my morning vision side by side with the picture of the reality that actually developed over the course of the day.  Many times I find, to my dismay, that the two images are vastly different.  More often than not, things just don’t turn out the way I’d envisioned.  But, today I am struck by a profound insight.  What I have tended to focus on in my visioning is what I am going to do.  Truthfully, the bulk of my work involves three rather complex entities—money, federal regulations, and people.  So unpredictable are the actions and reactions of others!  What I am required to do must be flexible and open to change at a moment’s notice.  There is really no way I can predict, much less control, how a day…or a week…will unfold.  However, I absolutely have power and choice in what I determine to be.  Right in the midst of much that is given to change, I can choose to be constant in my character.  So I cast forth a vision of being grateful and joyful.  I cast forth a vision of being diligent, creative, and efficient.  I cast forth a vision of being respectful, compassionate, and kind.  At the end of the day, I won’t need to lament what I wasn’t able to do if I am at peace with who I chose to be.  I know that I can hardly wait to see.