For wisdom is better than rubies; And all the things that may be desired are not to be compared unto it.
Each year that passes teaches me a a little more about God, life, love and my own human weakness and frailties. I look in the mirror and what I see is a middle-age woman staring back at me. I see more frown lines and wrinkles, more gray hair. I mourn the demise of my youth. With age comes wisdom probably to compensate for the eradication of youth's beauty. I have more years behind me then in front of me. I cry less and laugh more. I wear reading glasses yet I see people clearer. I listen more and hear between the lines. I think in parables and riddles. I realize outward beauty is fleeing, inward beauty is eternal.
This is what I learned: God controls all the days of your life. Everyone wants to be loved but most don't know how to be. People that need love the most are the most difficult to love. If someone wants to control you they can't control themselves. Belly fat is hard to get rid of. Make-up enhances but doesn't change. Obsession poses as love. I can be alone and not lonely. God does perform miracles. Everything you do for God is eternal. Self-deception has an unlimited capacity. You can't be everybody's friend nor anyone's enemy. I received 365 mornings of new tender mercies.
Hos 13:14 I will ransom them from the power of the grave; I will redeem them from death: O death, I will be thy plagues; O grave, I will be thy destruction: repentance shall be hid from mine eyes.
Five months ago I died. Not the Christian theology of dying to the flesh; I really died so, the doctors and nurses seem to think. I felt like I went to sleep. It was two o'clock in the morning of of July 15, 2010. I have been in the hospital since two o'clock in the morning of the 14th of July. Almost exactly twenty-four hours. I had drove myself to the hospital that morning after intense chest pains and difficulty breathing. When I got to the hospital they did an EKG and said I had just had an heart attack. All I could think about is how much heart attacks hurt and I was afraid. I was immediately rushed to surgery to have a heart catheterization. After it was over the doctor told me I didn't have a heart attack, that my heart was fine. I was glad to hear that. They wasn't sure what happened but assured me it wasn't my heart.
The next day I was under observation which consisted mainly of being hooked up to a holitor monitor, blood test giving every few hours, and EKG's taken. I was told I could go home that following morning. I spent the day like a human pin cushion and as kind as the staff of nurses had been, I was ready to go home. That was not to be! At almost the exact time early morning found me grasping for breath and trying to deal with the excruciating pain. I called the nurse on duty; Kristian a kind but somewhat clueless overweight middle-aged blond and told her I was in distress would she please give me nitroglycerin. She called another nurse to see if she could give me the nitro all the while I'm trying to survive until they figured out what to do. The other nurse; a chubby slightly older brunette came in and told her she has to first do an EKG. I know I was in a critical state but they didn't seem to think like me. Probably because it wasn't them in the pain. The chubby brunette with Kristian standing beside her asked me how I rate the pain between 1 and 10 with ten being the highest. I tried to hid the annoyance I felt at that moment. I said a "ten!" They finally went to get the EKG machine and a young black woman that gave me a sponge bath earlier stood looking helplessly at me as if she wanted to help but didn't know what to do.
I wanted to wait patiently for the nurses and the EKG but my body was having trouble hanging on and I could feel it. I felt darkness settling over me and the pain was unbearable. I did the only think I could think to do. I prayed. Not the prayers that my many prayer book teaches, not the prayers that avail much, or the ones that bring healing. The simple prayer of a soul in trouble. My prayer was simple and I repeated it until the darkness consumed me. I said, "Help me Jesus."
In the darkness my eyes refused to open. I heard only two things one, was the voice of the chubby brunette telling me to take the nitroglycerin under my tongue the other was scripture in Isaiah. I don't know if it came from the television. This is what I heard.
Isa 35:1 The wilderness and the solitary place shall be glad for them; and the desert shall rejoice, and blossom as the rose. Isa 35:2 It shall blossom abundantly, and rejoice even with joy and singing: the glory of Lebanon shall be given unto it, the excellency of Carmel and Sharon, they shall see the glory of the LORD, and the excellency of our God. Isa 35:3 Strengthen ye the weak hands, and confirm the feeble knees. Isa 35:4 Say to them that are of a fearful heart, Be strong, fear not: behold, your God will come with vengeance, even God with a recompence; he will come and save you. Isa 35:5 Then the eyes of the blind shall be opened, and the ears of the deaf shall be unstopped. Isa 35:6 Then shall the lame man leap as an hart, and the tongue of the dumb sing: for in the wilderness shall waters break out, and streams in the desert.
I felt a push in by back, my eyes opened and I sit straight up in the bed as if pushed from a deep sleep. The first thing I noticed was my bed was surrounded by hospital personnel with lights, machines, and a huge needle filled with what only God a and few smart men know what. And there in that same dark corner stood the young black woman who had refused to leave my side.
I was the first person to say anything, I apologized for falling asleep in the midst of the trauma. Everyone seemed to be to shocked to speak. Finally Kristian said, "She came back on her own," her blue eyes in buck-eyed amazement. Then the lady with the big long needle said, "You scared us, I was just about to try to resuscitate you. That's when I noticed that one of the machines was a defibrillator with big electric paddles and all. All I could say was "Thank you but I feel fine now." Slowly they left the room each one letting me know how scared they were. Only Kristian and the young black woman stayed. She told me I was her very first code blue. Once again I apologized and explained I only felt myself go to sleep. There was no light to follow or tunnel to enter. There was the word of God speaking softly to me as I walked through the valley of the shadow of death.
Like Job I know my redeemer lives. I was thinking of that night today as I listen to Nicole Mullen sing my Redeemer Lives with tears streaming unashamed down my cheeks. I pray for all the hospital staff but mainly I pray for that young woman though feeling helpless refused to leave my side. She came the next day to see about me but I had company so I didn't really have an opportunity to thank her for her kind compassionate eyes that let me know I didn't have to suffer alone. God bless her.
Luke 14:28 For which of you, desiring to build a tower, doth not first sit down and count the cost, whether he have wherewith to complete it? ASV
Jesus compared picking up our cross and following him with building a tower. I started my journey simply wanting him to break the chains of bondage that clung so desperately to me. Our relationship was built on what he could do for me. What he did for me. I marveled at his free gift; held it in my heart until it became part of me. His love healed me, his words comforted me, his spirit delivered me and his life saved me. He paid the ultimate price. He counted up the cost.
I couldn't help but notice he said sit down and count the cost. Usually when someone tells you to sit down it's because the information they are about to convey will probably devastate you or cause an usual reaction like shock or intense surprise. A couple of weeks ago he told me to sit down and count up the cost. He told me that I would be misunderstood, laughed to scorn, persecuted, lied on, talked about and that the world would not love or receive me. He really didn't paint me a pretty picture. So much for my delusions of grandeur. Needless to say, I took a seat and started counting.
Towers are hard to build because they're tall and strong and you would need a lot of help.First I had to calculate the material I would need. I decided I would build my tower of glass. Mainly because the apostle Paul said we see through a glass darkly. I would have to begin my foundation with rock, that was easy since Jesus is my rock and foundation. Next I would use the strong steel beams of love as the structure again, I have plenty of help in that department. He is love. I'll have walls erected of the bricks of rejection, persecution, self-denial and endurance. The window frames would be made of fiberglass of prayer,fasting, understanding,forgiveness and wisdom. My windows would be the durable reflective glass of the word of my testimony. The inside walls will be drywall of obedience, purity and holiness.
Recently the Lord spoke to me about "His people." He said tell my people I'm coming back soon. He said that we have walked away from the simplicity of the gospel and become lukewarm like the church of Laodicea, that they think they're rich but they're wretched, miserable, poor, blind and naked. I said Lord I can't tell them that, we don't say things like that. It's not politically correct they'll say I'm judging and don't have love. He asked me which is worse saying all is well or telling the truth. Which shows the most love. Then he said count up the cost. I counted up the cost. I chose to love at all cost. I prayed and cried for two weeks. I'm willing to die for my brothers and sisters even if they're the ones throwing the stones.
"But death doesn't matter with me now," he said. "Because I've been to the mountaintop. And I've looked over, and I've seen the Promised Land. I may not get there with you. But I want you to know that we as a people will get to the Promised Land. So I'm happy; I'm not fearing any man. Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord." ~Martin Luther King Jr.
He loved not his life even until death.
I like music. I like listening to music; the intoxicating rhythms of jazz, the soothing melody of classical;the soft whispering lyrics of a love song. I’m not really choosy when it comes to music. For over two weeks I have played this one song over and over. Jason Upton,“Never alone Martin,” from the CD “Beautiful People.” It’s about Martin Luther King’s last days. His struggle to make sense of the kind of cruelty and hatred that would take a young father from his family that would eventually leave him lying in a pool of his own blood.
It’s not unusual for me to play a song over and over. I will usually play a worship CD until I feel completely immersed in worship. It's different this time. I feel a great sadness in every stroke of Jason's keyboard; the heartfelt sobs in his voice as he speaks of Martin Luther King’s death threat. I was captivated by Martin’s tears and God’s response in the song. “You’re not alone; I will never leave you”. In his last speech Martin Luther King Jr. said he had been to the mountain top and his eyes had seen the glory of the coming of the Lord. I remember that speech and even his death the following day with startling clarity.
I was seven years old and living in Detroit at the time; a mostly withdrawn, shy, sensitive, third child of eight. My brothers and sisters were all playing. We had a big wood based television that had bad reception and a wire coat hanger as an antenna. On the television I hear Walter Cronkite booming voice say, “Martin Luther King is dead from gunshot wound to the neck". I was standing alone in our living room trying to understand death and destruction, violence against someone who spoke out against violence. No longer were there dogs and water hose or riot and looting but the finality of Martin life’s blood pouring into a lonely hotel balcony. He was dead before the age of forty.
The summer before that fateful day, the 1967 riot had broke out in the streets of Detroit. Our family had just moved to Detroit from a quiet suburb near Detroit. The week we moved in the riot started. I remember the black smoke and fire looming overhead like a wicked omen threatening to steal our breath; the gunshots, death, National Guards and the Army patrolling the streets in tanks and jeeps. The wild-eyed angry looters; the glass breaking and screams. Our family made a hasty retreat in the middle of the night, my father carried me to the car barefoot, screaming and afraid. We went back to the quiet neighborhood where my grandparents still lived; our refuge and safe haven. My father went back to the riot and a few months later to prison for looting a money order machine.
I still remember the pain of hearing the news of Martin’s death. I remember the salty taste of my tears as they rolled slowly down both cheeks. I retreated to an empty bedroom and went into the closet. I needed to cry loud and hard and even at the young age of seven I had learned to hide my pain. Tears have always come easy to me, which left me the blunt and target of my siblings teasing. They called me names and gave me labels like Crybaby and Sissiecat. I learned how to hide my tears in closets or the folds of my clothes and as I got older in drugs, alcohol and self-destructive behavior. But in that closet when I was alone with my pain; I cried. I cried for a nation that hated peace and the peacemakers. I cried against prejudice, injustice and cruelty but mostly I cried for little girls who no longer had their daddy.
I watched the video of Martin’s last speech and noticed how at the end of his speech he just kind of collapse into a chair with the help of an aid. His body worn and tired his spirit strong and sure. He said he came to do the will of his Father. I wonder if like Jesus in the garden of Gethesmane he cried, prayed and sweated blood in the hotel room that night. Did he ask for the cup to be taken from him? Or reprimand his aids for not being able to stay awake and pray for an hour.
His work has been completed. Mine has just begun.
Early on Martin Luther King Jr. adopted the motto of nonviolence; if they see our pain maybe it will stop the cruelty and injustice. I no longer hide my pain but cry openly with my voice and the pen. I now show my pain and reveal my scars. I cry. I cry for the decay of our society, the haunted look in the eyes of a once strong nation.I cry for our neighborhoods and Townships. I cry for creation, men, women and children, the young battered and abused women that was once me.
Last week I was sent an email and asked to blog about Martin Luther King Jr and a monument in his honor. There’s still 14 million dollars more to be raised to forever etch on the hearts and minds of both past and future generations the greatness of the civil rights movement, and one of the most beloved figures of the 20 century. Please make a contribution to the cause. I have added the link for your convenience
And if thou draw out your soul to the hungry; and satisfy the afflicted soul; then shall thy light rise in obscurity and thy darkness be as the noon day~ Isaiah 58:10
Today I was looking through friends pictures on Facebook and came across a young woman whose family I have not thought about in a long time. She has turned out to be quite a beautiful woman. Seeing her reminded me of the time my best friend Fran and I decided to rob some little kid of their candy money. We normally didn’t spend our time robbing younger children, but we were short on cash and it just sounded like a good idea when Fran said it. So we hid in this small abandon field a few doors from our neighborhood grocery store. The field name was pimp ally; I’m not sure how it got that name in our small middle class neighborhood, but that’s what we called it. We hid humming a strange tune hoping it sounded predatory to go with our new image. Finally we see our prey, a boy three or four years our junior walking toward the store with his hands slightly extended holding an overstuffed white handkerchief. We pounce on him, snatching the handkerchief from his hands laughing. He looks at us with his eyes pooling over with tears and said, “Please don’t take my money, it’s all my mommy had, she sent me to go get potatoes, me and my little brothers and sister have not eaten today and they ‘re hungry, this is all we have.” As he pleaded with those big tears, I knew. I knew how it felt to be hungry; to have to run to the corner with dimes, nickels and pennies to make sure my little brothers and sisters had something to eat. I knew all to well the hurt and fear in my mothers eyes when she couldn’t feed us. I knew a father that was too drunk or high on heroin to feed his family. I knew. I stood there with the handkerchief with only part of the money some of the money had fallen to the ground some Fran had in her possession listening as this kid told my family’s story. The story that happened when we moved away from the security of my momma’s parents, the story even my best friend didn’t know. I handed the handkerchief back to him and said. I’m sorry, Fran give him his money back,” as I looked around on the ground for the change that had fallen. He stopped crying and went on to the store. It took me a minute to say anything; mainly because I didn’t want the tears to start flowing that were threatening to come. When I finally spoke I said to Fran, “We’re not going to rob little kids.” She looked at me and said, “He’s just a crybaby.” “No, he’s not he’s just hungry, we should try to help his family,” I replied. I’m sure she didn’t really agree with me but she knew by the look on my face that I meant business, we would never rob another kid and we would help when we could. I did start helping after that. I once even gave away an expensive outfit, fifty dollar coat and all, to a little girl whose mother was an alcoholic and she dressed poorly. When my mother found out she wasn’t too happy with me, but I looked her straight in the eyes and said, “She’s poor and really needed it, she set me straight by informing me I was “Poor.” There is no picture of the young woman’s older brother. I don’t know where life has taken him. I do remember watching him blossoming into a very tall handsome teenager. Every time I saw him I felt the shame of my actions that day. He never mentioned what happened that day, but I’m sure he remembered. Maybe he knew he expressed my pain that day. Maybe he knew that I knew and it gave us a certain comradery or kinship like a paternal second cousin.
I protest by your rejoicing which I have in Christ Jesus our Lord, I die daily.
~I Cor 15:31 KJV
I'm on a journey following that road that's less traveled. I had to get off the well traveled, wide road, it was just getting too crowded. Don't get me wrong I really liked that wide path. There were many lanes and only occasionally did you have that hesitant traveler that slowed the lane down. They would usually find themselves on the other end of some very foul words and hand gesture; the finger you don't use in
church when you're excusing yourself in the middle of a boring service.
I've reached this dark and gloomy ocean. Maybe it's the Dead Sea nothing seems to be living or able to live in these waters. As I stand at the shore not sure which way to go or how to continue on my journey, I notice a sign to my right that read, "The Sea of Forgetfulness," and to my left a giant funeral barge with the words "The Flesh," scrawled crudely in bright red paint. I looked down at the large bag I had been carrying since my journey began. It's a large, heavy bag and it has slowed me down and- most days weighed me down. I knew at that moment what the funeral barge was for. Who the funeral barge was for.
Slowly I walk to the funeral barge every step monitored and rehearsed like a bride on her wedding day. As I reach the barge I open the bag. The first thing I pull out of this bag is Self-Righteousness, it is brown and hard and looks similar to a uprooted dead tree. It has skinny crooked limbs and roots that favored tentacles, attached to these tentacles are many smaller but just as vicious creatures. There is Criticism, Judgment, Gossiping, Backbiting, Slander, Righteous-Indignation, Dishonor and Manipulation. I grabbed Self-Righteousness by the throat and held it at arms length. What a strange choice of weapon to use when all I wanted is to be loved. I threw that nasty little piece of poison on the barge with all it's cohorts.
Next out of the bag comes a large dreary Cloak of Pretense, it's faded black exterior is worn and dirty and has turned a cloudy gray, it's interior is dingy,thick and brown; covered with the lice of secrets and fears. I've gotten plenty of wear out of that old thing, I am always pretending. Pretending not to be lonely, hurt, sad, angry, bitter, unforgiving, confused, scared, self-centered, inpatient and egotistic. Those things just doesn't fit in my image, they're messy and reek of sin. I couldn't wait to throw that smelly old thing on board. Love will cover me on this journey.
Next came my running shoes. They're a worn raggedy pair of Nike Cortez Classic exactly like the pair Jenny gave Forrest Gump. Forrest Gump's are in better shaped than mine, he ran for three years, I ran for thirty. It was easier to run then be rejected. So I ran from everything and everybody, I ran from commitment, relationship, responsibility, accountability. I ran from God, his call to me, his love for me. Running help me to hide the fact that I'm mostly selfish and afraid. I ran and I ran. If anyone tried to pursue me I hid. I hid behind the rocks of offense, self-defense, depression, despondency, arrogance and spiritual pride. I hid my broken, seeking, wounded heart. I pulled those rocks out of the bag and threw them on the barge along with the shoes.
The last thing in the bag was a fuzzy brown pet mouse I named Timidity. She was cowering in the corner and shaking. I looked at her little beady brown eyes and whispered softly to her "You know it's time to go, don't you?" As I lifted her from the corner of the bag, I noticed five little hairless pink babies, the first she named Fear of Man, the second, Praise of Man, the third, Disobedience, the fourth, Passivity, the fifth, Compromise. I threw them on the barge one at a time.
I don't know what David meant when he said he "Walk through the valley of the shadow of death." Maybe he was referring to the enemy without, I struggle mostly with the enemy within.
I watch as the Funeral barge sail slowing into the dark and murky water. I hear a still small voice whisper the words.
