One Year Ago Today

This morning I am thinking about the life-changing, heartbreaking experience I was facing exactly one year ago today.  I was standing helplessly by the side of my brother, Andy, in the intensive care unit.  A team of nurses flew in and out of the room trying one thing after another.  In retrospect, I suppose they wouldn’t have allowed me to be standing there, holding his hand and singing to him, unless they realized there really was not much else they could do.  One of the nurses said, “The doctor is on his way.”  Another nurse began to explain how suddenly things had changed.  He said of my brother, “He wasn’t concerned about himself.  He just kept saying, ‘Call my family.’”  I think he intended that bit of information to be comforting, but it truly broke my heart.  “Why hadn’t I stayed with him longer last night?” I wondered.  I remember feeling conflicted as my other siblings started to arrive, each of them saying “goodbye” to Andy.  On one hand, I felt compassion for their grief.  On the other hand, I was angry that they were giving up.  And they seemed unfazed by my announcement that the doctor was on his way.  With all the hope I could muster, I tried to block out the sights and sounds of the respirator.  I tried to shift my attention from the sorrowful countenances all around me.  I tried to pray.  I wondered if Andy could feel me holding his hand.  I wondered if he could hear me singing to him.  I wondered if he was aware that we were all there.  I wondered if he was still there.  Once the doctor arrived and made his grim announcement, I relinquished my façade of strength and optimism, and I wept.  I wondered what in the world I was supposed to do without my big brother, my friend, my confidant, my pastor, my other single sibling, my “person.”  I wondered if my faith would survive this.  I wondered if I would ever really be happy again.  As I reflect on the grace and healing that have filled my life over the past year, I see that my faith was not destroyed.  On the contrary, it been strengthened.  I can remember Andy now, without completely falling apart…his wit and humor, his wisdom, his strength, his kindness, and his love for me.  Most of all, I remember the prayers we prayed together, and it gives me great hope.  It makes me look forward to blessings and answered prayers for which I will be giving thanks one year from now.       

Looking At What I Didn't Want To See

This morning I am thinking about the last days I spent with my big brother, Andy.  I had a routine, in which I’d head over to his house every day as soon as I got off work.  I guess I fancied myself as some kind of sentry whose duty was to stay until at least midnight, even if he’d fallen asleep long before that.  Some days he’d be waiting for me, sitting in the leather rocker he loved so much.  We’d talk, laugh, watch TV, or pray together, agreeing for things we each wanted and needed. Sometimes he’d become overwhelmed by fatigue, so we’d move to his room, where I would sit cross-legged on the side of his bed until he fell asleep.  On other days, I’d find him already sleeping soundly.  So, I’d sit in his leather rocker myself, working on assignments for school.  I realize now that he was so tired, but I really didn’t want to think about it then.  I distinctly remember one day when I walked into his house, there was a great sense of heaviness.  It was eerily quiet, the blinds were closed, and the house seemed especially dark.  In a panic, I flew into his room, where he was lying in bed.  He greeted me with a weak “Hey” and a smile.  Like a maniac, I started opening blinds and turning on lights.  I walked through the house, going from room to room, praying loudly.  I made bold declarations for life and light and joy and peace.  I ended my prayer back in his bedroom, declaring that he would be raised up, stronger than ever, with a testimony of God’s power to heal.  With tears rolling down his face, all he said was, “Lord, thank You for being so good to me.”  I realize now that he was so weak and in so much pain, but I really didn’t want to dwell on it then.  On July 1, 2012 I was once again sitting at his bedside.  This time, it was in his hospital room, and he was drifting in and out of sleep.  I found it impossible to focus on whatever assignment I was supposed to be completing.  I just kept looking at him.  During one of his waking moments, our mother called.  “It’s Mom,” I told him.  “She wants to know how you’re feeling.”  His response was, “Tell her I’m ready to come home.”  I realize now that was getting ready to die, but I simply refused to accept it then.  As he dozed off again, I began to pray desperately.  Pacing back and forth, I launched words of faith from my mouth, aimed at an invisible enemy that was weighty and unyielding.  After a while, I was exhausted.  I packed up my laptop, gathered my other belongings, and prepared to leave.  It was not yet midnight, but I kissed him goodbye and left him alone to rest.  I did not imagine that he would enter into eternal rest early the very next day.  One thing I’ve learned over the past year is that true faith is more than believing God for things to turn out the way I think or hope they should.  Faith also calls for an unwavering trust in the goodness of God’s heart, even when my own heart is broken.  So now, whenever I sit in that leather rocker, I think about Andy.  I remember his wisdom, laughter, kindness, and friendship.  And today, even through tears, I can imagine him giving me the biggest hug and saying, “Everything is going to be alright.  You will see.”                    

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.