The Touch

She pushes her way through the crowd with determination born out of desperation. Her head is slightly bowed and her eyes downcast. The years of shame, unworthiness, heartbreak and pain are etched on her forehead and around her mouth. She wraps her shawl tighter around her shoulders, not because she felt a chill, but because sin and shame have a way of trying to hide to cover up. She increases her pace with her eyes focused on him.

She remembers when in her youth she tried to follow him; he seemed so distant, unreachable and her view of him was distorted. There were so many obstacles back then. She was a teenage mom. She remembers, with surprising clarity, the shame of her growing belly, the heartbreak in her parents eyes, but more then that she remembers the day her son was born. His newborn scent, the swirl of dark curls at the crown of his head, the selfishness of her thoughts of having someone to love her. She loves her son even though his dad walked away from them when her son was four months old. She was not married to the new guy, but he was willing to take care of her son. She even stayed after he started hitting her. The sin and shame increased and she lost her focus.

The dust rose and settled in symptomatic rhythm and rested on his sandaled feet. His saunter was self-assured, his Deity unmistakable and she was drawn to him; though she feared him. I have to reach him she thought with a familiar ache. Was she mistaken or did she notice his stride slow as if to wait for her, as if he knew she was behind him. No, he would never wait for anyone like me, she thought with cynicism and bitterness bred from unforgiveness and pain.

The crowd appeared to narrow as she meandered her way to where he now stood. His back was to her, her heartbeat raced and sweat ran down her brow, the closer she got to him the more her body trembled. She was close enough to touch him to call to him, to beg for mercy, to ask him to please help her. Time seemed to stand still as she stood in his presence his virtue overpowering her sinfulness, her weakness. At that moment she knew she could never face him, she was not worthy she thought as her head resumed it's bowed position, but before she could turn and walk away her eyes caught the sight of the end of his garment, the hem. She had come to far, life has been so hard and she has overcome to many obstacles to leave without what she fought her way for. She needed a touch, just one touch would help; it would make her whole. She raised her feeble shaking hands and lightly touched the hem of his garment.

He turned and asked, "Who touched my clothing". He looked around until his eyes fell on her. She lifted her head and their eyes met. His eyes where full of the fire of God and a tenderness reserved for those in pain. At that moment she knew that she was loved have always been loved; and tears stream unabridged down her cheeks. With tears in her eyes she fell down before him and told him everything. She's crying now as she types away on this keypad tears of gratitude and thankfulness. Jesus I love you so much thank you for making me whole.

Love's threshingfloor

There are times in life, when others use words to describe you or some characteristic you possess. Words that uplift, encourage, inspire, some may even offend, however what she called me shocked and left me speechless.

There has been a lot of friction in our office lately; more than usual. Everyone, and I mean EVERYONE (with the exception of myself), has something against someone else. No matter how much I pray, speak peace and play mediator the best that happens is a temporary cease fire. The tension is so thick you can almost see the heavy, gray mist of the fog of bitterness, envy, unforgiveness and feel the cold chill of indifference.

In the midst of these adverse circumstances, I lay on love's threshingfloor. There are seasons of love's planting where love ploughs the fallow ground of your heart and plucks out the tares of selfishness, judgement, hypocrisy and self-righteousness; and sow the seed of mercy, compassion, justice and righteousness. Then there is the season of love's threshingfloor; I'm in that season.

It's not easy laying on love's threshingfloor, but here I lay crying out in agonizing pain, for me; for the women on my job. I feel each heartbreak, rejection, unworthiness, shame, guilt and broken dream-and it hurts!

I watch as they attack, backbite and lie on each other. I watch as they do the same to me. I pray, I mediate and speak peace.
I forgive, hug and love. I'm on loves threshingfloor and it hurts.

A couple of days ago one of my co-workers came to me and said, "We were talking about how you are always forgiving and you never let anything change your disposition, we have decided you're just holy...I was shocked and speechless.

Though I could have come up with an argument to convince her of how mistaken she was. I didn't..
Not because I wanted to wear a mask or disguise and pretend that holy would be a word used to describe me. I didn't deny it because it was too precious to me. Like Mordecai, I was honored to wear the King's apparel, if it was only for a moment. I'm still on love's threshingfloor.

Falling

I am falling. Falling rapidly into nothingness.
Fading fast
I am no longer me, but us and we.
Drifting into parallel
I am falling. Falling slowly into light.
Diminishing swiftly
I am no longer me, but us and we.
Vanishing into truth
I am falling.
I am falling.

John 12:24 Verily verily, I say unto you, Except a corn of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abide alone; but if it die it bring forth much fruit. KJV

Missing You

I miss you.
I miss everything about you.
I miss the excitement in your voice, every time you heard mine. I miss the way you called me if to much time had passed since our last conversation. I miss you leaving voice messages saying it's been "way to long" since you talked to me. I miss having you to talk to about "anything". I miss your smile, your voice, your encouragement and your love. I miss your laughter and the shape of your hands. I miss running my hand through the silky texture of your white curls. I miss the gentle kisses on my forehead you always gave. I miss being your baby, I miss being called your baby. I miss the bond we shared that no one else understood. I miss being told what a wonderful daughter I am. I miss you Daddy...I miss you Daddy.

Several times recently I picked up the phone to call you, only to remember you're no longer here; and a whimper inadvertently escapes me. I am missing you.

Singleness

My co-worker got married this weekend in Jamaica, I didn't go to the wedding, but she e-mailed me the pictures and they were perfect, The tropical outdoor background was a perfect match for her ivory knee length dress; trimmed in black. There appeared to be a soft ocean breeze that gently swayed the chiffon of her dress as they stared each other in the eyes and exchanged vows. She is stunningly beautiful, he is handsome; they are very much in love. It is perfect.

I am single. I've been single since the death of my husband eight years ago. After eight years, I still have not found comfort in my singleness. I have, however, found moments of contentment. I ask a lot of my single Christian friends, how to find comfort and I seem to get mixed messages. The younger ones encourage me to date, get out more, e-harmony; the older ones say I should be more spiritual and the desires for a mate will disappear. All advice is welcome, if not well received. I can't imagine myself on e-harmony with two-hundred choices(the mind games I would play with myself) or even worse having to resign myself to the lie that I don't desire a husband, because it's easier than saying none desire me.

I look at the photos of my co-worker and see perfection for a day. I realize that after the wedding there is real life; and in real life there will be hurt, disappointment, disagreements and a constant exercise in forgiveness. Then I wonder if I should adopt a cat. He could curl up beside me to comfort me in times of loneliness and distress. We could share a meager meal of tuna as I tell him about my day. It would be perfect.

There is a stigma attached to being single in the body of Christ; an unspoken insinuation that you are not whole. Some times it comes in the form of a look, a gentle pat on the shoulder and some times it's voiced in an awkward attempt at match-making. It's hard to find comfort when others around you are so uncomfortable...I am content, satisfied in the knowledge that I'm not alone, I'm loved and desired... I matter and I belong. My hope is eternal, where one day there will no longer be singleness, but unity. All united as one, a bride.... His bride.. Yes my bridegroom waits in anticipation for his his bride; he waits for me, for us..It will be perfect!!

Mouth almighty

I grew up in a family that expressed themselves. We were loud and voiced our opinions, every one of us in our own way. We were never stopped from expressing our feeling, whether it was hurt, disappointment, anger, joy or laughter. Feelings were never right or wrong, they were simply feelings. I remember once in my early teens, feeling unwanted and unloved, so I came up with the conclusion that I was adopted.

I decided to let my mother and grandmother know that I figured out the truth, and I didn't appreciate being taken from my "real" family to be unwanted and unloved by them. I stood in the middle of the living room floor as my captive audience looked on from the couch. I cried and told them everything they had done wrong to me--in my opinion. I cried "real" tears, nose running tears. My performance ended after about twenty minutes, I thought they had had enough and would be ready to repent of their evil deeds. They gave each other a quick glance, as if to say, "you want to take this or should I". My grandama won. She gave me a look of compassion and understanding. I had won... She said "Who told you ?, I told them not to tell". I stumped away muttering something about them "always trying to be funny".

They enrolled me in drama class shortly after that, I was good,too!

I told that story to say I was never taught how to hold my tongue, especially if I thought an injustice had occured against me or someone I loved. I was notorious for defending the underdog, and myself if pushed enough. I was so use to saying what I thought or felt, that when I went to stay with my grandma's sister the summer after the second grade; I was shocked and confused as to why I was being spanked for my "smart mouth". She gave me lots and lots of spankings... I never stopped.


I work in a place that If you visit every three months, you will meet a brand new staff, some don't stay that long. Several people went to lunch and never returned. There is always injustice, and there's me (mouth almighty). I never thought it was a bad thing, until Jesus whispered to me one morning as I was mentally preparing the nasty, cutting remarks I was going to make that day. He said "I never uttered a word"....Huh....what..."You want me to be quiet?"

I want to be like Jesus, I want to melt down and pour into the character of Jesus, I was made in the likeness and image of God, it shouldn't be this hard to keep my big mouth shut. It's been such a struggle for me. I had a few victories, I told everyone that would listen about them, but I lost more then I won. I seem to have a two day rule, I'll allow the injustice, verbal abuse and nit-picking to roll off my back for two days, then on the third day I'll let them have it with a barrage of words that would probably make a demon blush or very proud. Where does it come from, this fiend in me that would rather battle than exercise self-control. I can't help but feel there's some hidden place in my heart desperately in need of healing. When Jesus first said to me that he never uttered a word, I was quiet for two weeks. My boss came to me crying and apologized! I got two raises in two days!!

Today I got rude, nasty and mean, I feel awful; like a giant God-failure. And it hurt to fail God... I know all my well-meaning friends would tell me don't beat yourself up. I don't want to hear that! I want to know how to be obedient to the Father's will. I need to know how to love him enough to get pass my own discomfort. I need to know how to love others enough to see the person Jesus loves, even when they're being nasty, mean and rude. I need to know how to be like Jesus and not them. I need to repent and to cry. I need to get this right. I need to be still and quiet. My sister Jill and friend Melodie prayed with me and decreed a speak-no-evil fast. It will probably be easy for Melodie, it would be easier for me to give up food and water for forty days. I'm determined to do it though, I'll get it right this time.... I'll pray. I'm realizing that it's not about fighting injustice, it about a soul Jesus want to draw. It's about love and nothing else, (nothing).

Pray for me.

Darkness

I sit in a corner of my back room in complete silence, except for the sound of thunder outside of my windows. Even the monkey chatter that usually goes on in my head is strangely silent. You know the kind, the conversations you have in your head, some you may have had previously, and they rekindle themself a week later with you being the victor(this time!). And it's dark...

With this silence there is a restlessness and darkness, I don't know where it comes from or how long it will stay. It comes without forewarning and it departs just as quickly.

I watch as he hovers over my head, dark and brooding. "What do you want? I ask, He laughs in his deep sinister baretone voice and said "your joy and laughter of course". "Is she with you?" I ask, knowing the answer.

They always travel together, and like Bonnie and Clyde they're a vicious team. "Would you like a cool drink or something to eat", I ask; trying to divert their attention as I hide the vial containing my most precious treasure. She noticed my pathetic attempt at deception and they pounce on me; with a volley of physical and verbal assaults." You're stupid, ugly, and no one loves you", she says as she digs her claws into the flesh of my clenched fists. "Where is your King?", he asks as he reigns brutal blows to my head, I feel white hot searing pain...Then total darkness.

I wake still clutching my vial, the pain of their assault visable in the bloody, battered mess that was once hopefully optimistic. I cling desperately to my vial, as I stumble into the restless, dark trap they have set before me. I search for light, in this pool of darkness. "Where is it?" I wonder as I grapple in the darkness for my Bible, I chastise myself for my lack of consistency and discipline.

They follow, taunting, laughing, hitting, kicking and insulting. I search the regions of my mind to no avail. My mind cannot comprehend the things of the spirit. I remember! it's my heart! My heart screams his name, as I look out the window toward the hills; I see a flicker of light, is it lightning? I wondered in my battered haze.

No, it not lightning; but Him, clothed in all His Glory and Majesty, I get oddly brave as I watched our enemies flee in terror at the roar of my Lion, The Lion Of Judah. "What took you so long?", I ask in a weakened voice, still reeling from the beating I sustained. "Come on let's go get them!", I say as I march toward the now departed pair; I marvel at the newfound bravado, where moments before I cowered in the corner with fear and trembling. He didn't move, he just looked at me with questioning, soft brown, compassionate eyes.

"Buttercup, what did you do?", he questions. "Nothing!", I say looking around at the broken, bloody. and tattered mess. " It was them, Depression and Loneliness that made this mess, they hit me, kicked me, tried to steal my vial and called me a whore". "Come on let's go", I repeat.

He rephrased his question, "Did you let them in?" And at that moment I finally remember my key. I franticly searched for my key. "It was in my hand when they knocked on the door"! I say . Then I noticed it glistering in a puddle of blood, my blood mixed with the blood of the Lamb. "Oh no, did I let them in?" I wonder as I retrieve my key. The key with the inscription "Love and Trust". He searches the eyes of my heart for the truth.

I answered," I forgot the part of the key that said trust", as I hang my head in shame and remorse. "These are hard lesson dear one, but you must learn them", he says as he tenderly reaches under my chin and holds my head upright and tends to my wounds. "You can only love me as much as you can trust me; love and trust is the key that will lock them out, and the lack there of, will let them in. Never entertain them, not even for a moment", he said, as he soothed his healing balm over the last of my wounds. "I gave you the key, you must use it". "Thank you Jesus", I whisper in a sleep induced wimper, as he kisses my forehead and says, "Rest precious".

And I rest.

Fearless

Come

As the music swirls around in my head I feel a pull, not in my body, but my spirit. Come...Come, Don't be afraid come.
"Jesus"?
"Yes, Carlean I want you to come closer, but only your spirit can come", he said as he extended his hands to me.
I reach for his hands and I see him, his face. I grasp as my breath feels as if it been taken away, my heart races and I have a feeling of what can only be descibed as ecstasy. My soul wants to run, my spirit wants to hold his hands forever.
"Come" he said.
"You are beautiful", I say; and I know at that moment; Jesus is the beloved, my beloved. "Where are we going?"
He gives me a shy smile, and said "I want to show you something".
My heart is overwhelmed that Jesus wants my love and attention. "Show me what"?
He didn't answer, We just held hands, and swirled to the music, laughing.
"You want to show me your home"? "Are you taking me to Father"?
He said "yes, but not now".
And like two young lovers we laugh and dance. The music stopped and our dance ended, and his hands were gone, his face is no longer there.
"Where are you? Please come back! Please! This place is so empty without you, please"!
"I am here" he said.
"I just want to be with you, I don't want to be here anymore, please let me stay with you" I beg.
"Not yet, you have work to do", he said.
"Can't you find someone else, someone wiser, more knowledgeable in the scriptures, understanding, more disciplined, not as scared"?
"You have chosen greater then these things, you have chosen to place all your love on me, now GO".
I cried, as I walked away, only Father's will, I said as I soldier on.
And I GO.

Scribbled Gray

All my life I loved colors, pastel watercolors, yellow , pink, powder blue and lavender. Then there's the deep rich hues; red, purple, hunter green and midnight blue. I love them. Colors have meaning though I'm not sure what...The one I'm most familiar with is gray...
My acquaintance with gray started in the third grade. I was the only black girl in my class, and one of only three blacks in the class. I had two bestfriends in class, Ann and Angie. We did what eight year old girls do, we giggled and talked about how stupid and smelly little boys are. Especially Charles. Charles always interrupted our girl time to tell me how nice I looked or how much he liked my plaid skirt with the giant pin on the side. Charles was the neatest boy in class, His blond hair was alway cut to perfection and he wore beige pants and crisp white shirts (always). He was also the one we giggled at the most but he didn't seem to mind...he always came back.
One day, we decided to draw each others picture. I drew what I thought was a perfect picture of Angie and Ann. I proudly gave my rendiction. Angie had yellow hair, blue eyes surrounded by the same color blue cat-eyed glasses. I captured Ann's page-boy haircut and brown hair as best I could with my limited color options. I thought they were masterpieces!
Judging by the frown on her face, Ann did not!

Angie drew a picture of me with the two ponytails and the bright orange ribbons I wore that day. I thought they were all perfect. Apparently, Ann did not! She snatched the picture Angie drew of me and scribble my face gray, and said " this is the color you are". I stared for what seemed hours at the charcoal gray as hot, salty tears ran down my cheeks and seeped into the corners of my mouth. I was different! I was gray! And they laughed!
I did what any self-respecting eight year old, who was unprepared to face the evil of a falling society), would do I grabbed a pink crayon and tried to color them different, and I scribbled so hard I broke the crayon. It was too late, my spirit broke long before that crayon. The veil had been lifted, the veil of innocence that protected me from a world where you are judged more by the color of your skin then the content of your heart. A world where little girls are scribbled gray and pink.

I don't remember being friends with Ann and Angie after that. I mostly kept to myself. I did, however, get a new school companion, a nervous feeling in the pit of my stomach that attacked me every morning before school, and stayed with me the rest of the day. I resigned to my new identity. I was gray and I didn't fit.
That summer while at vacation Bible camp, I met a lowly carpenter that didn't fit either. We fit together perfectly, it took years for me to realize it, and a whole lot of colors. My portrait was gray.

I went on to other schools, schools where everyone was black like me, I wasn't accepted there either. I got new colors "yellow and red", and slapped once because I was "yellow and thought I was pretty". It's hard to think you're pretty when you are gray.
For years my world was gray, but that carpenter that fit so well didn't see it. He saw beauty in the midst of all the grayness. He saw all the colors of the rainbow. He rended the veil, and he loves me.

I no longer see gray, my life is now full of a kaleidoscope of beautiful colors and people. I see Jesus in the soft brown of Jody's eyes where there is love unmeasurable and when needed a stern rebuke. In the twinkle of Stella eyes and the beauty of her arthritic, gnarled hands that always reach for mine. In the gracefulness of Ann's walk that reminds me of a beautiful swan; did she ever feel like an ugly duckling? Was she ever scribbled pink or gray? In the light of Robbin's smile, she can always light up the room. In the humbleness of Joanne's spirit, in the joy of Connie's giggle. In all the beautiful people I worship and fellowship with. Yes, I see Jesus and a multitude of colors. I see the color of love.