Remembering

John 15:20 Remember the word that I said unto you, A servant is not greater than his lord. If they persecuted me, they will also persecute you; if they kept my word, they will keep yours also.

I'm a subscriber to the Voice of the Martyrs magazine and email. Once a month the send a publication of the magazine, but I receive many emails. My heart breaks for the many Christians that are martyred regularly for the gospel. I send money when I can; pray and cry for them when I can't. I have suffered persecution many times. My body has never been targeted, no one has ever beat, burned or attempted to behead me. My character has been questioned, I have been called a hypocrite more times then I care to remember, this usually happens when I refused to allow them to take advantage of me because I am a Christian.

I was witnessing to this guy that I work with lately. He's an active crack user and bi-sexual that proudly boasts about his lifestyle. He even told a few people he would corrupt me before I convert him. I never have a problem giving anyone my testimony and him and with I spent many hours talking. I never talked against his lifestyle but he always wanted to have conversation about God with me. I'm certain that if Jesus can save me, no one is beyond his reach. I never browbeat anyone with scriptures but if asked, I speak the truth.

He started shamelessly flirting with me a couple of weeks ago. I just simply told him he was wasting his time, he told me he would have me within a couple of weeks because he would "woo" me. I never took his weak wooing serious. I just spoke my peace (hell no, it's not gonna happen) and tried not to be too rude.

Last week he made a statement that he has come to terms with his crack addiction and it doesn't take anything away from him. A few days before he made that statement two guys came in to buy burgers and my brother-in-law Alvin(owner and operator) was out at the time and the guy had to cook. I pretty much have to watch everything he does. So I went in the kitchen as he was preparing the burgers and noticed that he was using the beef that was in an container that was suppose to be thrown out (it was turning brown with age). I told him that that meat is not to be sold, he put it on the grill anyway and told me he knew what he was doing. I took the meat off the grill and threw it in the garbage. I could see the hostility in his eyes but, quality is more important to me than popularity. When he made the statement about his crack addiction not taking away from him. I reminded him of the meat incident and the fact that he makes bad choices that people in their right mind would not make.

It's something about the truth that some people reject. I think maybe it confirms our own self evaluations. It paints the portrait of ourselves that we think are hidden in our self-deceptions; it unmask our sin and pain, and it pulls the bandages off our infected and pus oozing wounds, and it tears down the stone walls of pride that our callous hearts our hidden behind. The truth leaves us naked and vulnerable and in desperate need of a savior.

He got so angry with me, he called me a hypocrite, a former whore and prostitute, he said I was never raped that I seduced my rapist, and that I was a child prostitute and IV heroin addict and cocaine snorter and that I was a liar, still on drugs and playing with God. He said I left my son and was never more then a person who gave birth. He accused me of the of things that just weren't true, he said, I should never give my testimony ( or write about it) because I was the most disgusting person he knows. He berated me with lies and some half truths straight from the pits of hell. He went on for about a hour until he looked as if he wanted to cry. I never spoke against him or defended myself, periodically I would agree(the half truths) but for the most part I just listened. I looked in his eyes the whole time, sometimes they looked empty and at other they looked evil.

The day before this assault happened I had this vision about this guy. In the vision something was hovering over him. It was large and brown with what looked like tentacles. The vision flashed before my eyes and stayed there for about two minutes. All I could say at the time is "eewe, eewe Lord what is that?" I don't get many vision, but I always get warnings. A big ugly demon was hovering over this guy waiting to attack me. So, I do what the word of God instructed me to do, I put on my whole armor of God. Every assault bounced off of me. It just did not penetrated as vicious as it was.

Earlier this year when I was working on Apostle Kimberly Daniels campaign and listened to the assaults on her past, I was always amazed at her courage and how she took the assaults with such dignity. She has never been afraid to tell the truth of how God rescued her from the crack house and her own self-destructive path. They called her an ex-prostitute and questioned her God given redemption. They missed the beauty of God's Glory that rest in her character. They asked her why she spoke on and wrote about her past drug addiction and prostitution, she answered in a matter of fact voice, "because it's the truth." At that time I often wondered if I could take character assignation as well as she had, or if the things in my past could still cause me shame. I realized that the only shame is the shame of allowing the disease of sin to eat us alive without ever accepting the grace and redemption that's offered so freely to us.

After he was through with his ferocious tirade against my right to exist, He said I have no right to tell him about his drug addiction and he asked me why would I care. I told him because I care about him and see more in him than he sees in himself. He stormed away from me after that shouting over his shoulder for me not to "care about" him. I believe his anger at being sexually abused as a child by a male relative(heard about it by family friend) had come full circle with the truth of my testimony. The stone walls finally came crashing in on him. It's easier to fight than to feel the pain. My grandmother used to say that an angry dog will bite you, God said a wounded bird will peck you. I don't know how much of the assault was the demon, how much was the wounded child and how much was that wall of pride that says, I'm messed up and I know it but I don't want you to know."

I do know that I have to accept persecution with the grace that rescued me from my own self-destructive past. I have to remember that Jesus said to "count up the cost" of following him. There will always be people that will lie on me or bring up my past, like the children of Israel did to Moses when they asked, "aren't you the one that killed the Egyptian?" I realize that flesh has an uncomfortable desire to feel superior and compare sins. Would it not make my sin less smelly if yours were worse? I have been blessed to be pulled out of a dark pit even though Jesus hated even the garment worn by my flesh. I walked deep into darkness and Mercy rescued me. I am truly a women of grace and I will tell it as long as I have breath in my body.

I will also remember that a servant will never be greater then his LORD.

Fearless

The Little Red Shoes

I remember the day I got them, the little red keds sneakers with the patch of white rubber on the top with the alphabets "L" for left and "R" for right written in black ink. I loved those little red shoes. Not only were they stylish and comfortable they helped me to remember my left from my right. The day I got my shoes I came down with the mumps. I had gotten a little dirt spot on my shoes string after insisting on running races all day. I wanted everyone to admire my new shoes as we put our feet at the starting point. I washed my shoe strings in the bathroom sink and laid them neatly beside my shoes on the backyard porch. The sun seemed extremely hot that day so I laid on the porch beside my shoes. I woke in a dark bedroom burning with fever and my cheeks were swollen. I looked like Alvin the chipmunk . I struggled in and out of consciousness asking about my shoes. Finally someone handed them to me, even the insidious mumps couldn't separate us.

I had just started kindergarten and we had to place our right hand over our hearts recite the pledge of allegiance. My greatest fear was that I would get it backwards and everyone would laugh at me like the adults laughed at me(even though I recited it to the "public" on which it stands and "invisible" with liberty and justice). I didn't want my peers to see how ridiculous I could be without even trying. I dreaded school from the day I started, everything about school was alien to me. The mean bully kids that picked on quiet kids like me, the strange hokey pokey dance that always left me confused as to which arm or leg to shake all about, and all the other anxious kids that looked scared and disconnected like me. If this what school was like I wanted no parts of it.

I could count to a hundred, I knew my alphabets, I knew all the basic colors and I could even read a few words(thanks to my parents) but that darn left and right never failed to confound me. All that changed when I got my new red kicks. Ha! Now I was the little girl that didn't put the wrong foot in or take the wrong foot out. I was the little girl that looked at her shoes for confirmation. I was the little fraud and cheat. I wanted to wear them every day so each night I would pray to be able to wear them the next day. Before the red shoes I prayed only the "now I lay me down to sleep" prayer. My little red shoes became sacred to me, my red canvas holy grail.

Then one day after they had gotten too tight and started unraveling on the sides. I awoke to an unspeakable horror. My little red shoes were gone, replaced by a pair of light gray and dark gray patent leather oxfords. I searched under beds and couches, in dark closets where monsters were known to lurk. My little red cheat sheets were gone. There was no trace of them anywhere. I got up the courage to ask my mother. I overheard her talking about me and the "raggedy little red shoes" on the phone once, so I knew their days were numbered. "Mama do you know where my red shoes are?" As many times as she has reprimand us for answering with a question, here she was doing exactly what she hated, "Don't you like your new shoes," she asked, trying to distract me. I would have none of it-she apparently didn't know what was at stake, I would be the only child in my class that funked the Hokey Pokey. "I like them, but I really really like my red ones," I said. She said, "but sweetie they are old and raggedy, your new shoes are much nicer."

That was the end of the conversation, my shoes like my nappy hair didn't fit the image; didn't make the cut. What my mother didn't suspect is that I would pray for my little red shoes. I put my little hands together and asked in the most humble and often repeated prayer, "God please help me find my shoes." Not long after my prayer I found my little red shoes. They were buried in the kitchen garbage under egg shells, bacon greased paper bag and bits of syrupy pancakes, remanents of Saturday morning breakfast. I pulled them out of the garbage and put them on. My little red shoes and I were together again. They saw my through many tough times; childhood illness, my first day of school, the national anthem and pledge, but most of all the dreaded Hokey Pokey.

My last memory of those shoes was the day I pulled them out of the garbage. I sat on the back porch with them on, and even though that had gotten too tight and coming loose at the seams I was happy to have them back. I remember thinking that I would love my new shoes if they were the exact same as my little red shoes. I don't remember what finally happened to them, maybe like an unwanted pet they were taken for a ride or to live on a farm. Maybe the memory is too traumatic for me to recall. They are gone but never forgotten. They live on in my memory and my mother's. She never fails to mention them in one of her, I'm going to tell an embarrassing story about you moments. They go hand in hand with the snaggletooth fuzzied headed picture reserved for unfortunate first dates that meet my mother.

My Childhood again

Since I can remember I have always loved books. Every night one of my parents would read us a bedtime story. I loved all the Uncle Remus tales, my father would make each character come to life in my imagination with amusing voices and funny little songs. My favorite were Tar Baby and Br'er Rabbit before they were deemed politically incorrect. My mother would read Hans Christian Anderson in a soft whispering pitch that would both entertain and pull you into sleep. As I grew older I read and reread Little Women and The Prophet until the pages were puffed and yellowed with the bitter sweet smell of old books and spilled hot chocolate. When I wasn't reading I would make up stories and play them out with my dolls. I must have invented the concept of "me time." I am mostly an introvert. I would spend many hours alone in my head. Family has a natural way of studying your behavior pattern an concluding "that's just how she(he) is." I was known as the one that spent most of her time alone.

I didn't much care to be around a group of adult relatives. The male relatives or Uncles as they were all known would pull handfuls of change and tell me to take what I wanted. That I didn't mind, the fact that I would have to perform like a circus monkey to get that change has always annoyed me. I would have to sing some Motown Hit, like Jimmy Mack, Baby Love and Don't Mess With Bill. Even at the tender age of four I knew all the lyrics; for added measure I would do my best Supremes impersonation. What annoyed me the most is the fact that no matter how serious I became when I made my assessment of their sometimes(more times than not) drunken behavior or some other strange "grown up" thing. They would laugh and say I was five going on twenty five or something of that nature, as if I were the one being foolish; just because I was the singing circus monkey with the fuzzy tangled ridiculous hair.

My Childhood

I guess my childhood was as normal as I knew anyone else's to be. I was born at 5:00 am on a hot June morning having survived seven months (I was a premie) of my mothers irritation at my father. The day my mother went into labor  my father decided to take the car apart. Things must have spiraled from that point. My mother decided to smoke her first joint right then and there, with me hanging between coming out and staying in the only place I had known thus far. I'm thinking I came into this world high on pot and extremely irritable which doesn't make for a good start. To make matters worse, when the doctor smacked my little butt I didn't scream, not because I was too high to feel it, but because my throat and probably lungs were to filled with mucus. I was told the doctor had to stick his fingers in my mouth and pull the mucus out. After that I let out a giant yell announcing my arrival.

I grew up in the sixties in a small suburb outside of Detroit. Periodically we moved to Detroit only to find our way back to Ferndale eventually( we moved back after a year or less). I spent the summers of my early childhood stripping naked and walking our block talking to all our neighbors like the main character in the storybook, The Emperor's New Clothes. What I remember most about those days were how bright the sun shined, and the tall blades of grass with the occasional yellow of the dandelion.

The Anderson girl were three teenage sister that doted on me and loved combing my hair, which was a chore for my mother. By the time I was two years old my hair was a mop of fuzzy tangled curls that flowed down my back. The woman in my mothers family had soft shiny natural waves a reminder of their mixed heritage. My first memory of being different was during one the aunts visit. She looked at me and stated in a matter of fact manner that I favored my mother except for my "nappy hair". There it was, my first taste of discrimination happen in my home with my own kine. In the early sixties black community was divide into two class of blacks, the lighter complexion with the "good" hair were the most acceptable. My hair never made the cut.

There was always great affection from my father and grandfather. I was beyond a shadow of a doubt their little princess. The year after I was born my sister Gina came along( I already had an older sister and brother), by the time she could talk she, talked and play excessively with her invisible friend Jesus. I was no longer everyone's darling I had been replaced by a smaller, prettier, and apparently more spiritual model, not to mention her soft shiny wavy hair. I didn't like her even if Jesus did and every time I expressed the fact that she was a lying, crazy snot-nosed brat, the grown people would spell out the word j-e-a-l-o-u-s as if spelling it would somehow disguised it's meaning. It probably would have if I didn't know what it spelled.

I have always been a strange mix of paradoxes, quiet and shy most days, but then there was the days I would talk so much my mother would start what was known around our house as the quiet game. The person or persons who could stay quiet the longest won a shiny quarter, I never once won that quarter, my sibling and I would make faces at each other to try and get the other to laugh so that we could win. Once or twice a month we had family confession. My sibling and I would all gather around our parents and confess our sins. Our sin pretty much consisted of eating the jellybeans off the big coconut Easter cake, breaking someone else toy, breaking eggs or drinking out of the milk carton. We never got in trouble nor angry after confession even if someone else got a spanking for your sin, it was a way of cleaning our conscious without the reality of consequences.

My father was an artist and like many artist he would suffer with bouts of depression. He drank gin, shot heroin and smoked pot. In spite of his problems he was loving, funny and handsome, but not a good provider. My mother had an exotic beauty that made ,to my horror, strange men stare and whistle. She wore micro mini skirts, maxi dresses, loud powered blue eye shadow and smoked pot when not pregnant(which was rare, she had eight children by the age of twenty eight). I can't count the number of times in my life that I wished for a more matriarchal mother; chubby, slight mustache with silver hair like some of my friends mothers. My parents were pot smoking hippies and sideline flower children.

My parents believe in pure expression especially artistic. Our home was always filled with paint, brushes, crayons, pencils, stencils and diaries. We were always taught to express ourselves whether it was joy, anger, disappointment, pain heartache in words or art. We were a loud, rambunctiousness artistic bunch without traditional rules.

I was number three of nine and before long a middle child, and the carrier of the disease middle child syndrome. It manifested itself as a attention getting brat, who was prone to temper tantrums that made the Tasmanian Devil look like Mini Mouse. I was a happy but emotionally expressive child.

More later

Just Another Manic Monday

This is what you do when you're completely bored and have decided you are the "worst writer in the world."

The First Time

Gen 4:9 And the LORD said unto Cain, Where is Abel thy brother? And he said, I know not: Am I my brother's keeper?
Gen 4:10 And he said, What hast thou done? the voice of thy brother's blood crieth unto me from the ground.


I have a lot of first times that I can remember in my life. My first crush, my first kiss, the first book I read, my first communion, my first rejection, the first time I heard the Lord speak my name, there have been many first in my life.

I remember the first time I saw a man die. I was seven years old at the time living in Detroit in an old manor that was converted into a two family duplex. All the homes on the block were old dilapidated mansions. Some had the elderly tenants that lived there most of their lives, others like ours housed the out-cast large families that didn't just fall on bad times, but were born into it.

Our house was connected to a bar. The only thing that separated us from the bar was a rickety wooded walkway that rats used to run between in search of food. The rats were so bad that my mother used to sit food out for them every night hoping to stop them from coming into the house and nibbling on her children. It must have worked; I don't remember seeing any in the house.

The neighborhood was a rainbow of nationalities and cultures. There were black, white, Puerto Rican, native american and even a neighborhood witch whose house we would cross to other side of the street to avoid directly passing. We were all shapes, sizes and colors, but we had one thing in common, we all wore the dark gray tint of oppression. We were the ones that were unaccepted by a society that has no tolerance for the poor, uneducated, the weak, the old and the feeble. Mostly we accepted each other. It wasn't unusual for the families in the neighborhood to share a humble meal of beans and cornbread. However, I said MOSTLY!

It's something about an oppressed people that breed violence, hatred and corruption. Maybe pain, hunger and rejection need an outlet; a way to release your soul from the torment. It was several weeks after the 1967 Riot. The neighborhood had resigned itself into a smothering, burnout decaying cesspool of drugs and crime. As a child I wondered why hate would run so deep; why some people felt the need to exercise lordship over another. If we had a better job, higher education, riches, or lighter skin that made us somehow superior. Maybe it's the dirt part of us, that rat part of our brain where sin reside; that needs to feed the beast of pride, prejudice, lust, injustice and greed.

It started in the bar; a fight started inside and like most fights in the ghetto it worked it's way outside. I looked from a second floor bedroom window as the whole thing unfolded. There were several guys fighting, it was racially motivated, the White against the Latino. I watched in horror as knives, chains, bricks,and pool sticks tore flesh open and thick pools of blood poured through brown and white tissue. Each swing of the weapons seem to land on my heart and batter my young and tender soul. Great torrent of tears rolled down my face, but the most damage was done to my fragile heart.

I watched in shocked disbelief as one of the white guys with blood dripping from a wound in his scalp went inside a truck and pulled out a gun, one of the Latino men followed a few feet behind him. He saw the gun to late and with one quick motion and loud bang he lay in a pool of blood. Just like that the fight was over, all participants left the scene as quickly as they had arrived. All left were the brown skinned man lying in his blood, the sad eyed spectators, and the melancholy little girl in the window with the broken-heart. Hatred is like that, it grows and only death can satisfied it. It'll leaves a trail of tears and broken hearts.

I sit and wonder if like Abel the cry of his blood has reached the ears of the the Most High God, if we will every embrace each others unique differences instead of comparing it. How long will we close our eyes and sleep in our spiritual impoverished death beds? It's sad that some of the human race has lost it's identity as created in the the likeness and image of the Creator and live in the lesser being of the dust it was formed from. How many other little girls will have to experience tragic first times?

Fearless

A cactus blooms in the desert

Isa 35:1 The wilderness and the solitary place shall be glad for them; and the desert shall rejoice, and blossom as the rose.

I have been in a spiritual desert lately, lately meaning the last several months. When I'm in my spiritual drought I can see the look on righteous people faces when I mention the Lord. They look as if I have to be kidding, I couldn't possibly know him. I'm not deep or profound. My language is broken and I misquote or forget part of the scriptures. I feel unloved and abandoned by God. Like the desert cactus; I am lonely, deserted and unkempt. There is no sitting at Yeshua(Jesus) feet, no waking with the feeling of being encompassed in his love. Deserts are dry and lonely with only the vicious buzzards of doubt, uncertainty and self-awareness waiting to devour you.

I'm quiet and unresponsive to the people that have come to depend on me for spiritual advise. I have none. I have been ignoring their phone calls lately. My grandmother used to say "You can't get blood out of a turnip." And she was right. A turnip doesn't have blood. I'm not a turnip though, I'm more like the desert barrel cactus. I once read where the barrel cactus was once used for food by the native american. They would cook the bloom for food and chew on the pulp for moisture. Even in theses wilderness and desert times there is something life sustaining and nurturing hidden inside of you, but you must find it. You never know what you may have to give. There's always those small unexpected graces that spring unsolicited from the Throne of God.

Today I decided to return the calls I have avoided lately. I was hoping they could minister to me. First, I called my friend and sister Norma we recently got back in touch with one another. She has always been a great friend, good listener and a person that can make you laugh in the midst of encouraging you. After talking to her I felt ready to deal with the rest of the calls. I decided not to be "The one with the answers," but to be the one listening for the answer.

I once heard the desert places that God puts you in is a place of growth; when God shows you something about yourself. As I made my calls and listened( really listened with my heart) God showed up with those beautiful unexpected graces. I realized that I didn't need to have the scripture reference, the wise counsel, the answer or the ego boosting wisdom. The only thing ever required of me is to love. Love doesn't seek it's own, it doesn't have to. Love doesn't need to be deep or profound. All we need for love is each other, and in turning from my love ones I'm actually turning from love. Each person I spoke to today ministered sweet counsel to me. I realized that ego and pride will hide in your heart and disguised itself as a ministry.

I don't know all I have to learn in this desert. I do know that a cactus blooms in the desert.

Fearless