My Hilarious Humiliation

This morning I am thinking about a funny thing that happened to me at the airport a few months ago.  It’s funny in retrospect, at least.  I was in line, waiting to pass through security as I had done countless times before.  I observed a few random travelers being stopped after passing through the body scanner.  Some were asked to empty pockets.  Others had their back, sides, or legs patted down.  All were quickly cleared and allowed to continue on their way.  I had always been able to breeze right through the body scanner, and I was expecting nothing different this time.  Well, I was in for quite a surprise.  When I exited the scanner, two uniformed officials asked me to wait just a moment.  I noticed that they were both looking and pointing at something behind me, so I turned to see what it was.  It was a monitor.  On the monitor was a two-dimensional figure of me.  The “me” on the monitor mimicked the pose I had taken inside the body scanner—legs apart, arms up over my head as if I were doing jumping jacks.  Then I saw it…the thing that had captured the security officials’ attention.  It was a yellow, rectangular shape.  And the shape was positioned squarely over my crotch!  I thought to myself, “Surely they don’t think I’m packing heat in my pants.”  At first I joked within myself, thinking, “Well, I guess it has been a really long time since…”

I was no longer amused when the female official said, “Okay, I’m going to have to check you.”  I can only imagine the look on my face, but whatever it was it seemed to give her pause.  She was suddenly more tentative, trying to reassure me with, “I’m going to use the back of my hand.”  I stood there, utterly embarrassed, as the back of her hand briskly bumped against places that just shouldn’t be touched by another without my willful invitation.  The pat down took less than three seconds; then she told me I was cleared to go.  But, before I could even take a step, two more female officials approached me.  One of them announced (a little too eagerly, I thought), “We are going to have to pat you down.”  I said, “No, they just did!”  The first two officials nodded in confirmation, and I quickly walked away.  All the way to the gate to catch my flight, I thought about what had just happened.  And the more I thought about it, the more I became angry.  I couldn’t wait for my two travel companions to arrive so I could tell them about the harrowing experience.   As I recounted the sequence of events, both of their faces lit up with amusement.  By the time I finished the story, the three of us were laughing hysterically.  In just a few moments, they helped me realize that the source of my anger was my own vanity.  It had always been perfectly okay with me if other travelers got stopped and patted down.  After all, it was for a greater good.  Yet, truthfully, I had fancied myself to be above such a thing.  For me, the experience was so much more than a security check.  It was an ego check.

Today, as I prepare my heart and mind for the start of a new work week, I give thanks for life’s ego check points that have taught me humility when I didn’t think I needed such lessons.  I am truly grateful for the disappointments, the trials, the tests, and the moments of humiliation that I didn’t think I deserved.  I find that I can now relate more deeply and more genuinely to fellow travelers on this journey of life, because I have been “touched” by the same hands of experience.  I am learning to be less critical and judgmental, but more sympathetic and compassionate.  Moreover, I am learning how to laugh at myself…to lighten up…because there really is a greater good.  Ultimately, it is my joy and freedom and peace.

Re-establishing Lost Connections

This morning I am thinking about an error message that flashed on the screen of my phone yesterday when I was attempting to check emails.  The words said, “Re-establishing lost connection.”  It wasn’t the first time I’d seen that message.  I knew it meant I had been in a dead zone, where my phone could not access a wireless network.  I have come to recognize two tell-tale signs that I am probably standing in a dead zone.  The first sign is that a long period of time will pass without me hearing a ring, chime, or buzz alerting me that I’ve received a message.  The second sign is that, when I attempt to send a message, it won’t go through.  When this happens, I know that if I want to send or receive messages, I will have to move from wherever I am to someplace else.   An interesting thing I’ve observed is, once I leave a dead zone, numerous email and text messages that had been previously sent—but not yet received by me—will suddenly begin to appear.  This was my big “aha” as I sat meditating during my quiet time.  Lately, I have found myself in some spiritual and emotional dead zones; sporadically separated by time, distance, and busy-ness from the genuine life-giving, loving relationships for which I often pray.   Well, today, a question rose up in my spirit, so sweet and so clear:  “Where are you standing?”  I literally got up and danced around, before being overcome with laughter at the curious gaze of my Chihuahua.  The message that came through for me was this:  I have the power and choice to reposition myself.  When I discern that I am in a dead zone, I am free to move to places where true kinships and friendships are established, re-established, and perfected…to places where connections are pure and strong.  I will know where I’m standing when evidence of answers to this prayer—previously sent, but not yet received by me—suddenly begin to manifest.  I can hardly wait.  

Little Thorny Things

This morning I am thinking about the little thorny thing I plucked from my shoe before taking a walk one day.  I started out as usual, but after only a few steps I felt a slight stabbing pain in my big toe.  The first time I stopped, I removed my shoe and shook it a bit, convinced that a piece of rock had gotten inside.  When I didn’t see anything fall out, I guessed it must have been something very small.  I put my shoe back on and resumed my walk.  After taking a few more steps, I felt the stabbing pain again.  I stopped a second time, removed my shoe, and looked inside.  I saw something sticking up, about one-eighth of an inch, through the insole.  I slid my hand inside the shoe and tried to grab whatever-it-was by the tip, but I couldn’t get a good grip.  Since that didn’t work, I decided to take my house key and push it down.  After pressing on it a bit, I was pleased to see it disappear beneath the protective cushion.  I slid my foot back into the shoe and started out once more.  I was feeling quite triumphant until the pain in my big toe returned, more intense than before.  Stopping for the third time, I yanked the shoe off in frustration.  When I peered inside my shoe, it seemed as if the little thorny thing was peering back at me.  I knew exactly what I needed to do, but I really didn’t feel like doing it.  I considered just going for it…just finishing my walk, with the thing still in my shoe.  I figured I could deal with it later, after my walk.  However, when I noticed the puncture marks on my big toe, I knew it would be foolish to continue.  So, I sat down on a nearby stoop.  I took my time, unlaced my shoe, and opened it up wide.  In no time, I was able to grab the little thorny thing by the tip and pluck it out.  As I examined it, I wondered what kind of plant it had come from.  I wondered how in the world it had gotten inside my sole.  I wondered how it had positioned itself in such a way as to cause so much pain.  After these brief musings, I simply flicked the little thorny thing away.  I wanted to take a walk, and that’s what I did.

What excites me today is that, lately, I have been sensing it is time for me to walk into a new season of learning, living, and loving.  I am indescribably eager and excited to get started!  However, I realize I will first have to deal with some little thorny things.  These are not the kind that could get embedded in my s-o-l-e, but the kind that are embedded in my s-o-u-l.  I realize I must first deal with little thorny things like nagging insecurities, unrelenting regrets, and lingering hurts.  As I begin to take steps forward, I feel these things stabbing and pricking, causing pain that cannot be ignored.  I could try “shaking it off” or suppressing these things beneath the protective cushion of my well honed defense mechanisms.  I could also attempt to just carry on as usual, with these things still lodged in my soul, hurting myself and likely hurting others.  I know avoidance and denial will ultimately prove futile and foolish.  So instead, I have made the choice to just stop for a while…to sit, still...to open myself up wide to the hand of Grace that will deliver, heal, and make me whole and free.  I want to walk confident and unhindered toward the blessings that are destined for me.  And that’s what I am going to do.       

Confessions of a Hater

This morning I am thinking about how, when I was little girl, someone said I should never say the word “hate.”  She said it was just like swearing.  Well, I don’t know about that, but for the past few days I know I’ve been feeling it—full throttle, real and raw.  So, at the risk of offending some, I’m going to drop the H-bomb.  I hate that, upon hearing the news of nine people being killed at their church in Charleston, South Carolina last Wednesday night, I had to make myself be okay all day at work and wait until I got home to cry.  I hate that, while walking the aisles of the grocery store this past weekend, I didn’t want to make eye contact with White people.  I hate that I wondered if any of them secretly shared the sentiments of the shooter or, worse yet, shared his deadly intentions toward me and other Black people.  I hate remembering some of the memes and messages previously seen posted on social media by people I’ve called friends, referring to young Black men as “thugs” and suggesting that, “if they would just follow the law, they wouldn’t have to worry about being killed.”  I hate realizing that, on the issue of the nine law-abiding Black people who were murdered last Wednesday night, those friends have been virtually silent.  I hate that I have been seriously wondering, who really are my friends?  I hate that, of all the White people I call “friend,” only one has spoken with me about this.  I hate every reason that hindered others who wanted to say something but didn’t.  I hate believing with all my heart that, if a young Black man had killed nine White people at a church service, he would not have been donned in a bullet-proof vest and escorted to protective custody.  I hate believing that, if the circumstances were reversed, a young Black man would have been shot and killed, without question.  Beyond the events of last Wednesday evening in Charleston, I hate the social system that allows for assassination of the character, confidence, and consciousness of Black people while the perpetrators are shielded in protective vests of power and prejudice.  I hate accepting the truth that education, quite often, is not the great equalizer.  I hate knowing that, as a teacher, I can’t share enough visual aids to overcome blindness of the heart and mind.  I hate knowing that I can’t provide enough real-world, concrete examples to break through the age old walls of privilege, apathy, or intentional ignorance.

I hate that I felt tears well up in my eyes each time a White person greeted me with “Hello” or “How are you today?” or a deliberate smile while I was out taking my walks the past two days.  I hate that I could not resist responding in kind.  I hate that, even now, I feel the undeniable force of Love poking through my armor of sadness.  I hate that I don’t know quite what to do with the tangle of emotions on the inside.  I hate knowing that a decision to believe things can somehow be better will make me vulnerable to potential hurt and disappointment.  But, more than anything, I hate the thought of giving up.  So, for today, I will lay down one H-bomb for another.  For today, God help me, I will hope.                         

The Path

                                      Photo by Elliott Sheppard

This morning I am thinking about the photograph a friend shared.  Looking at the picture reminds me of the walking path I take for my (almost) daily exercise.  I have found the path to be a place for me to gain perspective, especially when I’m feeling pressed.  It provides me with a beautiful space to meditate and be renewed in my mind.  Today this photograph has prompted me to recall and reflect upon some of my experiences on the path.  In doing so, I stumbled upon some interesting insights and lessons just for me.

   

1. Some people on the path notice what I’m wearing.  One day a complete stranger excitedly struck up a conversation with me about the new quarterback who had been drafted by our local NFL team.  I was perplexed by his apparent confidence that I gave a flip about football.  Then it dawned on me that I was wearing my Tampa Bay Buccaneers visor.  Another time, a woman smiled and said, “I’m from Atlanta, too!”  That day, I was wearing a t-shirt with “Atlanta” splayed across the front.  Little did she know that I was a native Floridian and had only bought that t-shirt for myself as a souvenir. 

Lesson:  I need to be mindful of what I choose to wear…mentally, emotionally, and spiritually…because people notice, and they will draw conclusions based on what they see.

 

2.  There are people on the path who jog or sprint past me.  Others move at a pace that allows me to easily breeze past them.  Still others are walking in the opposite direction.  Some people are already on the path when I get there.  Others appear, all fresh-faced and energetic, after I have been walking for a while.  People on the path vary in their entry points, starting times, direction, speed, and distance traveled. 

Lesson:  My part is not to compare or compete, but to complete the path that is laid out for me, guided by God’s Spirit, day by day.

3.  Some people on the path cause me to break my stride, like the man who was lost and needed directions to the grocery store or the elderly couple who wanted me to meet their dog, Fanny.  Then there was the woman who cautioned me, pointing out the very large alligator that was gliding across the lake in the direction I was walking.  Sometimes I want desperately to tune everybody out and just walk, but I realize it is the right thing to stop and connect with others or to help.  And sometimes I am the one who needs to be helped. 

Lesson:  Some encounters may feel like a distraction, but they may actually be for my instruction.  Sometimes my experience supplies me with wisdom and grace that can benefit others, and sometimes—if I take the time to stop and listen—the experience of others may supply wisdom and grace that is of great benefit to me.

 

4.  Typically, I try to walk between four and five miles on the path, but a few days ago I purposed to walk at least seven miles.  Most people walk around a part of the path called The Boardwalk about two or three times.  I wondered if people would think I was crazy for walking around it six times.  Then I reminded myself that reaching for a new goal might require that I look a bit crazy to some folks.  At the end of the fifth mile, I wondered if I had enough “juice” to continue.  But, suddenly clouds blocked the sun, and a gentle breeze began to blow, as if to encourage me.  As I finished the seventh mile, I marveled at how strong I felt.  I was so happy that I had made the decision to go further.    

Lesson:  When I stretch myself by faith, God’s grace, like a gentle breeze, encompasses me and encourages me to endure.  In His faithfulness, He refreshes me just when I need it most, so that I can go further.   

5.  One day I noticed that someone had written encouraging messages in bright, colorful chalk about every 20 feet along part of the path.  Some of the messages were:  “You rock,”  “Life is good,”  “Enjoy the view” (with an arrow pointing toward the lake), and “Mary, I love you.  Will you marry me?” (in my imagination J).  Some people on the path trod right over these messages without ever looking down.  I, on the other hand, took time to carefully read each one.  I smiled as I imagined the messages were intended expressly for me. 

Lesson:  I will look for the signs of God’s favor, goodness, and grace…tokens of His love for me...each day.  Moreover, I will be sure to leave such signs to encourage others on the path who just may be following in my footsteps.

Something About Kenny

This morning I am thinking about my uncle Kenny.  For many, many years we didn’t see or communicate with each other at all.  It seems the only reports I heard from others were that he was either out of jail or back in jail.  Apparently he was not one to pass up on any opportunity for a good brawl.  Anyway, he suddenly popped back into my life about four years ago, while I was out and about on a Saturday morning.  He looked terrible, at least in my estimation, with his hair growing wild and his clothes unwashed and unkempt.  Yet, when called me “niece,” I found myself wrapped in his smelly embrace, wanting desperately to do something to help him.  For starters, I offered him a ride.  I wanted to get him something to eat, and I also wanted to see where he was living.  He directed me to his modest apartment in a local housing project, and there I met his live-in girlfriend.  “This here is your auntie,” he told me.  I just smiled and shook her hand, though in my head I was saying, “Oh no, she’s not!”  I invited them both to come to church with me.   She laughed and laughed and told me she didn’t have anything proper to wear to church.  To my surprise, however, Kenny said he wanted to go.  When I arrived the next morning to pick him up, he was sitting outside.  Clad in his Sunday best—a clean shirt, jeans, and sneakers—he was ready.  And so began a routine.  At some point during the week, he’d call to check in with me and confirm that he would be ready for church on Sunday.  I’d pick him up, and then I’d take him to get something to eat on the way home.

    

One morning, while on my spring break, I stopped by and told Kenny I had a surprise.  I was going to buy him a new suit to wear to church for Easter Sunday.  I remember the joy and pride on his face as the salesman showed him different suit, shirt, and tie combinations.  Finally, he decided on “the one.”  I could tell he was disappointed when he learned that alterations had to be made, so he couldn’t take the suit home right away.  But, my goodness, when I picked him up for church that Sunday, he looked like a new man.  He had even gotten himself a haircut!  And, to top it all off, his girlfriend was waiting to go to church, too.

I was disappointed, and concerned, when Kenny went missing in action again about three years ago.  My calls to his cell phone yielded a message that it was no longer in service.  When I stopped by the apartment, it had been vacated.  Then one day I received a call from a hospital.  Kenny had been taken there by ambulance, and he had given them my number as a contact person.  When I got to the hospital, he was being quite ornery, insisting that they let him go home.  He looked awful.  A substantial weight loss, on his relatively tall frame, was quite dramatic.  I stepped into the role of “Kenny whisperer,” ultimately getting him to calm down.  He told me about how he and his girlfriend had broken up and how he had moved to another place.  I’m glad I made note of the address, because he had stubbornly checked himself out of the hospital the next day.

I stopped by to check on Kenny just a few weeks ago, during my spring break.  He said he was doing okay, but I didn’t believe it.  So I stopped by again the next day.  I wanted to say, “I love you, Kenny” because I hadn’t told him the day before.  He responded with a toothless grin and nodded his head.  I can’t explain it, but as I drove away I had the sense that I would not be seeing him again.  I was saddened, though not surprised, when I got the call that he had passed away yesterday.  I am grateful that our paths crossed again, though for a short time.  I appreciate the lessons I learned about humility, kindness, and compassion.  I don’t know what his last moments were like, but I pray that somehow he remembered that he was loved.    

The Emptying

This morning I am thinking about my recent experience of emptying one of my purses.  It’s the one I tend to carry with me most of the time.  The emptying was prompted by a question my chiropractor posed to me.  After having given me an adjustment, he briefly held my purse and asked, “What are you carrying in there?  Gold bars?”  His question made me laugh heartily.  It also made me wonder.  “What was I carrying in there?”  I had some ideas, but I wasn’t altogether sure.  So, as soon as I got home I took everything out of the purse and placed each item on a table.  Among other things, I found an empty bottle of hand lotion; 3 empty cases for reading glasses that I had either broken or lost; a cable for an electronic device that is not mine; 3 packs of sticky notes; 4 individual packs of Bigelow Spiced Chai tea; 2 books; 10 pens, 3 highlighters, a pen/highlighter combination; and $5.25 in quarters, dimes, nickels, and pennies.

First, I let the reality sink in that I was being a purse hoarder.  Next, I marveled that each individual item was relatively light, but all together they had some serious weight.  (Interestingly, I had gotten used to the weight, although it was causing me pain.)  Finally, I began to throw some things away and put others into their rightful places.  I conceded that there were only a few things I truly needed to keep in there, most importantly my ID and my bank cards.  What a difference it made!  My purse was so much lighter. 

    

Right now I am pondering how the emptying of my purse is profoundly analogous to the way I endeavor to guard my heart.  At those times when I find that my heart is heavy and weighing me down, I have to honestly ask myself, “What are you carrying in there?”  Sometimes I carry things in my heart that once served a purpose, but no longer do.  I carry memories of that which has been lost, broken, or all used up.  Sometimes I carry things in my heart that don’t even belong to me.  I carry burdens, bruises, and battles of others that I have taken personally.  Sometimes I carry things in my heart because I am operating from an “I want to be prepared, just in case” mentality.  I carry concern for eventualities that are about as likely as an impromptu bring-your-own-Chai-tea party.  Sometimes I carry things in my heart that are intended to be put to use, not just collected and stored up.  I carry ideas, dreams, and intentions that are meant to be purposefully shared.  Sometimes I get used to the combined weight of these things, even when it causes me pain. 

I concede that there are only a few things I truly need to carry in my heart consistently—namely my identity in Christ and knowledge of the boundless provision of God’s grace toward me.  When I live and love like that, it makes my heart so much lighter.  Knowing this, it is up to me to discern what needs to be discarded.  There is a significant difference between being fulfilled and being burdened.  Ironically, it is in the emptying…when I decide to lighten up…that I realize I am really made complete and whole.