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.                

  

For the Record

This morning I am thinking about the lists I made after reading through one of my old prayer journals.  Every now and then I like to take a look back at the intercessions, the requests, and the urgent pleas I have recorded.  As I pore over pages and pages penned from a sincere heart, I typically find that there is a stirring within me—a stirring of compassion, of strength, of joy, and of hope.   This time, however, it was different.  Instead of finding encouragement, I found myself wrestling with a vicious pair of foes named Doubt and Discouragement.  Their taunts were unrelenting.  “What are you praying for?  What a waste of time!  Your prayers don’t matter.  What’s meant to happen is going to happen, whether you pray or not.”  Well, that’s when I started making the lists.  I wanted to have a record that my prayers do matter…at least sometimes.  I ended up with four lists.  The first was titled “Yes.”  It was all the things in the journal that had turned out the way I prayed they would, like when a dear colleague got the job she wanted.   The second list was titled “No.”  It was all the things in the journal that did not turn out the way I prayed they would, like when my big brother passed away.  The third list was titled “WIP,” for works in progress.  It was things I still pray about, like my prayer to have the experience of growing in love with someone and enjoying a great marriage.  The fourth list was titled “DK,” for don’t know.  It was prayers for people I’ve never seen or heard from again, like the young woman named Ann who said, “Please pray for me” when I encountered her one day in a parking lot.  When I was done compiling my lists, I proceeded to tally all the prayers and calculate percentages.  Yep, I sure did.  I suspect things like that happen sometimes when geeks meet God.  In any case, the No list represented 5% of my prayers, while the Yes list represented 65%.  The WIPs were 17%, and the DKs were 13%.  While contemplating my four lists, I got a revelation of something quite wonderful.  ALL of my prayers matter.  They matter because the merciful, mighty God of all creation inclines His ear to me whenever I pray!  Far beyond simply keeping a record, I pray because I believe that God is and I am rewarded greatly when I seek Him.  I pray because I have the privilege to pray, about anything and everything.  I pray because I want to grow in grace, endurance, and faith.  I pray because I believe that God encompasses a breadth and depth of wisdom, love, peace, truth, and freedom that I have scarcely begun to fathom.  So, even in the face of doubt and discouragement…even with the reality of No’s, WIPs, and DKs…I will pray.  For the record, I will always pray.                         

Jesus Said, "Yes!"

This morning I am thinking about the story I heard a man tell on the radio.  He shared how he was engaged in a conversation with his wife while driving home from church one Sunday.  From the back seat, their young daughter interrupted with a question.  “Can I have some candy?”  His wife answered the child glibly, “Why don’t you pray and ask Jesus about that?”  Then he and his wife continued their conversation.  After a few minutes, their daughter interrupted again, with this joyful announcement: “Jesus said, ‘Yes!’”  I’m not sure if the mother’s suggestion for her little girl to pray came from a place of sarcasm or sincerity.  What does seem clear, however, is that the child was not deterred by the question.  In fact, it seems the question empowered her.  She took it to heart that all she needed to do was ask!  As I sit here, I acknowledge that this is not always the case with me.  When there’s something I really desire, the question typically occurs to me also: “Why don’t you pray about it?”  Instead of praying, however, I sometimes do a number of other things.  I strategize, and I rationalize.  I pine, and I whine.  I doubt, and I pout.  I sigh, and sometimes I cry.  The lyrics to an old hymn come to mind:

 

“O, what peace we often forfeit.  O, what needless pains we bear

all because we do not carry everything to God in prayer.”

I imagine the little girl, riding in the back seat of her parents’ car, didn't forfeit one bit of peace.  Having been invited to ask, she essentially declared what she desired.  I believe there’s much to be said for the faith of a little child, and today I won’t miss the lesson.  It’s just a part of life that I will sometimes find myself in the backseat of circumstances beyond my control.  In those times, questions may be presented to challenge my faith.  But there, in my most vulnerable moments, I have the power to pray.  There, even in my most vulnerable moments, I can still shout with a triumphant testimony, “He said, ‘Yes!’  Jesus said ‘Yes!’”  And maybe, just as that little girl’s faith encouraged me, my faith may encourage another.  I’m going to pray and ask Jesus about that.      

          

Palate Cleansing

This morning I am thinking about the great meal I enjoyed while out with a friend.  Before bringing out the main course, our server offered each of us a little cup of sorbet.  He said it was to cleanse our palates.  My friend said, “Sure!”  But I declined.  I cynically suspected it was just the server’s way of buying time.  I figured if I said “No thanks,” it would make him bring our meals more quickly.  It didn’t.  So, while my friend consumed the palate cleanser, I had to sit and watch…and wait.  I should have just agreed to partake, too.  When the server finally presented us with the main course, I said, “So, tell me about that palate cleanser.”  He explained that it was intended to clear our taste buds of the flavors from our appetizers to prepare them for the flavors of the main course.  Although my meal was absolutely delicious, I couldn’t help but wonder if it might have been even better had I cleansed my palate first.  Being completely intrigued, I Googled “palate cleansers” as soon as I got home.  I learned that some palate cleansers are bland—like milk, bread, or just plain water.  Other palate cleansers are tart—like the sorbet I had been offered earlier that evening.   In either case, their purpose is to neutralize the taste buds and remove competing flavors.  As I reflect on this today, it is helping me make sense of some of the seasons of my life that seem a bit bland or maybe even kind of tart.  Perhaps these seasons are intentionally ordained to cleanse my heart, mind, and spirit of things past…of courses that may have been quite enjoyable, but they were only appetizers for something else, something greater.  I recall that my rejection of the palate cleanser in the restaurant didn’t hasten the appearance of my main course at all.  Likewise, my resisting the seasons of waiting, of silence, and of stillness won’t usher God’s perfectly prepared courses into my life any faster.  In these seasons of preparation, I would be wise to yield myself to a thorough cleansing from the taste of what was, so that experiences from my past will not overpower or taint the taste of my tomorrows.  Now that I understand it a little better, I will gladly partake of that which prepares me to fully enjoy and appreciate what is to come.