Never Alone Martin

Never alone Martin

"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I was seven years old and living in Detroit at the time; a mostly withdrawn, shy, sensitive, third child of eight.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

Fearless

The Bully

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.

Fearless

The Funeral Barge

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.

"It is finished".

Fearless

Fearless reflections: Rainy days and mercy

Fearless reflections: Rainy days and mercy

Hiding

To every thing there is a season and a time to every purpose under the heaven.
Ecclesiastes 3:1
There is also a time to just hide. Times when you're persecuted and lied on and misunderstood. When the tongue of man is more deadly then a mafia arsenal. It's a time of cleansing for me, cleaning me from the opinion of men. I'm in one of those times right now, God told me to just hide in him. I wanted to defend myself and started to retaliate with my own negative opinions..then he asked me one simple question, "How do you hide?" The only thing I could think of was, be still and quiet. Then I looked up the word in the dictionary. Here's the definition of hide.
Hide: 1.To put or remain out of sight 2.To conceal for shelter or protection, to seek protection 3:To keep secret
I'm learning how to stay hidden, of course like everything else in my spiritual journey I stumble. My flesh likes to be seen. I have to go now, back to my secret place.

Happy Valentine Day

Happy Valentine Day to all the lovers around the world. Happy anniversary to my sister Claudia and her husband Ken. I'm appreciating love today. I just so happened to find this poem and fell in love with it thinking of my beloved, King of Kings. This poem is for old love that's tattered and worn, for new love that's fragile and uncertain how it may survive. For my Beloved Jesus whose love is strong and mighty.

You're my man, my mighty king,
And I'm the jewel in your crown,
You're the sun so hot and bright,
I'm your light-rays shining down,

You're the sky so vast and blue,
And I'm the white clouds in your chest,
I'm a river clean and pure,
Who in your ocean finds her rest,

You're the mountain huge and high,
I'm the valley green and wide,
You're the body firm and strong,
And I'm a rib bone on your side,

You're an eagle flying high,
I'm your feathers light and brown,
You're my man, my king of kings,
And I'm the jewel in your crown.

- Nima Akbari -

Love Quest

I've been thinking about love lately, the real kind not my self-absorb fantasy of happy ever after. I come to the concussion that I have limited knowledge whatsoever on the subject. My sister Claudia says that I'm a lovebug. I beg to differ, I treat people the way I want to be treated, but there is a clause in that. You must never cross me or anyone I love. Then you have to deal with my nasty little attitude and vicious tongue.
I'm not above speaking very little and putting that person on the pay you no mind list. I will ignore you and talk and laugh with everyone else around us. I will totally keep you out of my sunshine. I will call my close associates and my sisters and trash that person, even though it feels heavy and painful. Then when it gets to heavy to carry any further. I tell Jesus on them. He takes it too, the heavy lifts and I begin to see a different side, I see the God's side. I receive his wisdom. I always have to go to that person and apologize for the part I played. His side is always the side of love. Mine is usually pride or wounded pride.
I'm starting to realize that love isn't easy for me because it requires something from me. Things like service and self-sacrifice. I read that it's kind and patient, seeks not it's own, is not easily provoked, the total opposit nature then the one I possess. I'm praying to be able to love like God.

Fearless

My Great Conversion

It was a night like any other night, except it was a day that I chose to sleep for the first time in days. I mostly survived on cookies, chips, very little sleep and lots of cocaine back then. When cocaine finally let me sleep, I usually slept pretty hard. This particular night I was awaken suddenly and as I opened my eyes there was this bright light beaming down on me. It hovered over me great and fierce. To say I was afraid is an understatement. By my assessment, I couldn't run from it since it was covering the whole of my ceiling. I did the only thing I could think to do and I closed my eyes real tight and pretended to be asleep. I played possum, but he wasn't having it, he knew I wasn't asleep. Then the kindest, softest voice that seemed to soothe the fear from me said, "Don't be afraid, sit up,clean up your life, come out from among them I have work for you." And I said, "Me?..I don't know what to do Lord." I was sure he had the wrong house, the wrong person! I had thousands of dollars worth of cocaine stuffed in my underwear, a pistol at my side and a hopelessness born of pain and disappointment. I had not stepped inside of a church in at least a decade except for funerals. I was in my early twenties and mostly known in my family as the one that wouldn't amount to much. It didn't bother me that they stopped believing in me. I had stopped believing in myself several years before, on a musty, pee stained mattress against my will.

In the light came a vision, in the vision I was standing in a dark place with a white scarf draped over my head and at my feet were many wounded men. Hundreds of them, all had blooded bandages on one area of their body or another. Then just as quickly as it came, it was gone the light, the voice, the vision. I gazed at the ceiling for what must have been hours transfixed. I knew no one would believe me. If it hadn't of happened to me I wouldn't have believe it either. I didn't go back to sleep. I looked at the ceiling until I heard the birds singing. I went to church that day. I cried as I watched many people give their life to Christ that day, I didn't. I sat in the audience and cried.

I would like to offer you a sugar-coated miraculous transformation, but it wasn't to be. I wasn't giving up my life of sin and shame without a fight. It was too much a part of me. I held on to my guilt, unworthiness and shame with a white knuckled grip. One night of a fierce light couldn't break my grip. He was going have to pry my hand open finger by finger.

He didn't, he just followed me. He relentlessly pursued me like a unwanted suitor that loved me unconditionally. He didn't seem to care that I didn't want him. No one gave him the memo that I was no good. Everywhere I went he was there; him and his giant spotlight watching me, waiting on me. I just wanted him to go away and find someone else to do his work. He stalked me. I made my bed in hell and he sat on the edge of it. I begged him to go away, he wouldn't. He wouldn't fit neatly in my shoebox of past experiences. I couldn't fold him up and tuck him away. He just silently followed me with his giant spotlight and big puppy dog eyes.

He wasn't detoured by my choices either. I started dancing in this seedy little sex toy shop. I danced for forty-five dollars a song in this small Plexiglas booth. It had a phone on both sides. I could talk to the guys and they could watch me dance and listen as I pretended to desire them. Phone sex with a live visual. I hated every minute of it, but most of all I hated me. He didn't..he still followed me.

One night it had gotten to be to much for me. I didn't numb the pain. There was no white powder numbing, no liquor induced stupor. I left the shop with eight hundred dollars in my pocket feeling cheapened by the nameless faces that slobbered on the other end of that phone. I still felt that spotlight and his watching eyes. This particular night when I got home I turned on the shower full force as hot as I could get it.I wanted to be clean. I got in the shower and I said, "Okay, since you won't leave me alone, then clean me, please help me, I hate it all. I don't want those men looking at me like an object to be used for their sexual fantasies. I want one man to love me," I just want to be loved." The flow of my tears were as turbulent as the flow of the water, I scrubbed my skin raw trying to wash away my sins. That's the story of my great conversion. I stepped out of that shower forever changed.I was born again..

Fearless

Ode to the Demon Doubt

Hello Doubt, I'm glad you could come today. I have so much to say to you, I don't know where to start. So I'll start by thanking you for all the contributions you have made to my life. You have invested greatly in my security and have keep me comfortable and stuck in the same place for a long time. I do appreciate all your efforts. I can't count the number of times you stopped me from making a fool of myself and kept me quiet, and how many times you had me question if God really said that. I can not imagine where I would be if it weren't for you. You have constantly reminded me that I'm not pretty enough, smart enough, thin enough or good enough. I don't know what would have happened if you allowed me to think more of myself. And if your weren't there to remind me of all my failures I may have even tried again. You even stuck with me when Faith came, as much as you hate her. I know you two had different messages, but Faith's voice was kind, sweet and patient and you roared and yelled and made my heart beat loud and fast. I realize now it was only because you demand to be heard and your friends should never doubt..no pun intended. I sincerely thank you for being that voice of reason, you are so practical. You have kept me from venturing into the unknown and made sure I've stayed on the broad path. While Faith has been so uncertain and the path so narrow but alias dear companion I have chose to follow Faith. I would invite you to come along but you don't like any of my other traveling companions. We'll be traveling with Abba Father, Yeshua(Jesus), Holy Spirit, Love, Hope, Patience and several others I won't name since your face is turning so red.I know you only travel with Stress, Worry and Anxiety. Tell them I said "Bye," I need not be rude to them, since you always brought them along when I entertained you...I know you did not want them to abuse me the way they did.
I know what you're going to say, "What about what we had."
It's over...
There will be someone else, though I think you should retire. I know I must have wore you out with all my beggy prayers for Faith while at the same time entertaining you, Stress, Worry and Anxiety. Can't you see I was never meant for you. I will miss your strong arms of bondage, but stronger arms are waiting on me. He said say "Good-bye" and walk away and don't look back..
Good-Bye Doubt..take care of you.

Fearless

What I remember about Christmas

It's been several years since I really celebrated Christmas. I didn't stop for religious reason. I mainly stopped because I'm alone now, my son has grown and no longer celebrate, most of my family live thousands of miles away. I'm not lonely or sad, I'm just not making a big deal.
Today however like Ebenezer Scrooge I was visited by the ghost of Christmas past. This is what I remembered, Yummy treats and tummy ache. Hot chocolate and gingerbread with whipped cream, oranges, tangerines, walnuts and pecans. Candy dishes full of colorful hard candies. There was cookies and chocolate cake, apple and sweet potato pies, ham with pineapple and cherries glaze, turkey and dressing, mashed potatoes with giblet gravy.
Our neighborhood was always lite with colorful lights and Mr Roger had a Santa and reindeer on his roof and a snow covered nativity scene on his lawn. Our silver tree with a light that changed colors as the light circled, from red to green, blue and yellow. The homemade snowflakes and school art Christmas projects placed lovingly on the tree.
I remember the felicity of the holiday spirit and love and laughter as my siblings and I try not to offend one another in fear of receiving the dreaded lump of coal. I remember the Christmas when I was five my Aunt Cheryl(she was only five years older then myself) calling me a fast ass. I was certain after her saying that about me on Christmas Eve, she would surely receive her measly gift of the dreaded lump of coal, and just to be sure, I immediately told on her. Reminding my grandma that Santa left only coal for children that say bad words..Boy was I ever surprised when I saw her bounty the next morning, I also felt cheated out of laughing at her. The ghost of Christmas past didn't remind of what I did to make her feel the need to call me that, whatever it was I apparently was to focused on Cheryl's indiscretion to remember mine. I still struggle with focusing on others sin while I turn a blind eye to mine. I have learned a new word for that now, Jesus called it hypocrite and said I should first remove the log out my own eye. It's impossible to see when you have a log in your eye.
I remember the smell of pine and spices in the air. I remember the new plastic smell of my dolls and the bright shine of their hair. I remember emerging one such doll in water because she could actually pee if fed water and trying to get her to pee by bottle feeding her was too much of a chore. I tossed her aside after her near drowning experience since her hair no longer shone, but stood straight up on top of her head with none on the back or sides.
I remember itchy balloon slips under my dress and tights that I had to pick lint balls off, and reciting a poem for our Christmas pageant, I remember one year being the angel bringing the good news of the birth of our savior. I remember gifts that I loved and gifts that were practical.
I remember Christmas carols and licking snow of my hand knitted mittens...but most of all I remember, family, fun and being loved.
Merry Christmas...I have to go call my mother and son.
Fearless