What I Know For Sure...

As a Christian, yesterday should’ve been one of the happiest days of my life. In terms of Christian holidays and celebrations, Easter is at the top of the list. Remembering the death, burial and resurrection of Jesus Christ should provide a renewed meaning that makes you want to shout all day long and bring a smile to ones face that makes you look silly. Easter is the core of our faith. If Christ hadn’t died for the forgiveness of my sins, I would be nothing! Could you imagine your life before the Cross? I could. My “sorry self” would always be looking around for a goat to sacrifice at the altar, begging for forgiveness at least 2-3 times a week. For Real… For Real...

I'm clear; I am nothing without God's grace. Yes, I should've been one happy camper yesterday. But nooooo, not me! I hate holidays! Easter is no exception. It seems that nothing comes that easy for me ever, not even happiness; never has. I don't particularly know why, but I’ve come to believe that this is the way it's supposed to be. Once, in the middle of the night in a lonely hotel room after a full day of press and speaking, I was overwhelmed with my life and the call that has come with it.

I pause here to say, ministry can sometimes be a lonely place. I remember that night, asking God for a new life. "Please God," I pleaded. But I promise you, He spoke to my spirit instantly, "This is the only life I have for you, my daughter. Your life is perfectly shaped for your purpose." That night I lay in bed, cuddled between the pillows and wept for the Rae that should’ve been but never was. Not even at birth. I have come to accept that my life is what it is. Sometimes I feel as if God took my pain and designed a pair of shoes especially for me. He knew I loved shoes, so He crafted a pair that I could wear through thick and thin and still maintain a core of my dignity, even as a child enduring the holidays at my house.

Yes, holidays were always painful. They would begin with me going to church. Mama didn't go, so I took myself. Then by the time I arrived home, Mama would have a wonderful meal prepared or we would make our way to Grandmama's to eat. Both Mama and Grandmama could cook their butts off. I’d often eat until my little stomach couldn't hold another drop. Sometimes Mama would look on and shake her head with a grin, “That girl sho can eat." I'd giggle, “Mama I love yo cookin’." Those were the pleasant moments that I prayed for, but rarely got. The script never changed. No matter how much I prayed or willed it to be, Mama would start cussing and there was no shield between me and her words. There was nothing to protect me from her wrath, whether it was her mouth, her hand, the broom or the pretty white Polaroid camera she swung at me with all her might. I never knew what I did to provoke Mama. One night balled in a corner, I asked with tears streaming down, "Mama, what did I do? I’m sorry, Mama. Please tell me, Mama. I won’t do it again.” She looked at me and walked away. I was sort of grateful for her silence that night because her words hurt worst than her swing "You fucking Bitch! You ain't shit. You ain’t never gonna be shit!” That was Mama's battle cry!

 Memories of my Mama dominate my life on holidays. Now that she's gone with no other family, I often spend them alone, torn between the loneliness I feel and the pain I felt when she was living. I'm not sure how long it’s going to take to reconcile my relationship with Mama and how I feel on holidays. What I Know For Sure, is that God proved Mama wrong. I may not be all that I could’ve been, but my life has been perfectly shaped in spite of Mama's prediction, “that I was never gonna be shit.” Even in my pain, I understand that Easter has so much meaning for me. Not only did Christ die for the forgiveness of my sins, but God reshaped my imperfect life for a perfect mission at the perfect time in our history. Now that's love!

 Post Script: Long before I belonged to Fourth Presbyterian Church, I would stop and stare at the yearly April display in front of the church on Chicago's Mag Mile. I remember the first time I saw those trees with a sea of blue ribbons. “How pretty,” I mumbled as I made my way to the sign. I stood there paralyzed in front of those trees for a long time. People would come and go but I stood there with tears streaming down as I read the number of children abused in Illinois and Cook Country. That day, I cried for all those abused children. But I also cried for the children that were never counted, me included.