Notes From A Broken Heart

"God doesn't want me to struggle!" Seemingly out of the blue, the words penetrated my consciousness.  They pronounced.  They announced.  They even denounced the vicious spiral of defeat, despair, and death that had haunted me. I get it now.  He doesn't want me to struggle; in fact, God wants the polar opposite.  What's the antonym for struggle? Do I need to Google it? Surely, a plan is making its way to the surface.  If God doesn't want me to struggle, if He wants only Good for me (because after He formed Adam and Eve,  He declared that His work was "Good and very good"), then He wants relaxation, rest, and restoration for me.  He wants me to take it easy:  To Be! Because He is the "I Am That I Am," that my surety rests more on faith more than   reason.  Faith results in Being-ness. (Yet, flash-in-the-pan-faith often devolves in that sometimes elusive construct I keep trying to intellectualize rather than just accepting it

Juxtaposition.  I first met the word in high school, a mouthful for a painfully shy, introspective teenager.  I didn't know in which context I would try to roll the word around my mouth, fit it between teeth and tongue, and spit it out with pizzazz! How about it as  a declaration? Or would it come forth as a question? An interjection? Finally, I reconciled to "juxtaposed."  Now years later, like a magnetic puzzle piece, it clicked.  This after praying for wisdom, at the same time I practiced unwise behavior.  (Got to remember the trigger).  In my perpetual quest for balance, I typically overdo it, whatever "it" is. I remember hearing that unpasteurized apple cider vinegar regulates blood sugar levels.  So I bought the biggest jar on the shelf, scrupulously (I thought) followed directions, and ended up virtually overdosing! I didn't recognize the potential danger until I got scary, even eerie ,physical reactions.  Really scary.  Scary enough fo

There ought to be an official Big Sisters Day! Maybe there aren't many Big Sisters as strong, delightful, protective and embracing as my big sister, Elna, but I believe there must be.  In every family, even a family of three, one of the siblings wears the mantle of Goodness.  One of them projects a steady force of good that acts, not reacts.  Yes, Elna was the first of four sisters but that doesn't explain her inexplicable love.  How did she know to love so fiercely?  A forever love.  How did she manage it with such aplomb? A time-tattered story wended its way through three generations of family.  It centers around the four sisters and brothers who attended the same elementary school on the Near North Side of Chicago.  Bullies roamed playgrounds and neighborhoods back in the day, too.  Well, during recess Elna heard that Theophilus (not his real name) had threatened one of her sisters.  She did not go immediately back to her class.  Instead, she went to her sister's

Listen .  In order to hear anything, one has to learn how to listen (which may be problematic since "listening skills" rarely are taught in K-12 curriculum, whether in language arts, English, or speech classes).  I remember teachers reminding students, especially rambunctious ones, "You have two ears and one mouth for a reason!"  They rarely followed up with "listening skills development" techniques.  Adults admonished us to save our "outdoor voices" for the playground or basket ball courts.  Nowadays, noise bombards  us, so much so that its opposite typically brings pause.  What's wrong? It's too  quiet.  Put on some music; turn on the television; even, "whistle while you work!" We rarely implore students (or adults for that matter) to put on their "listening ears."  In truth, do we know who  or what or  when,   where,  or why  to listen? Especially, do we know how  to listen?  Probably not, for three of th

We carry scars.  We carry wounds.  We falter without knowing why. Perhaps, these perceptions arise because as children and youth, we think adults know everything! So we carry the detritus of their  lack of knowledge, a dictionary definition of ignorance.  Lack of knowledge.  Perhaps, that is why we attach such value and power to adulthood.  As kids, we limped, stumbled, or groped our way toward that magic, official age when a person was considered "grown."  At either 18 or 21, we attained the right to vote, drive cars, and enter contracts that even included the potential to buy a home. Little did we know that our parents, most teachers, preachers,  next door neighbors, Sunday School teachers, or other authority figures, to name a few, did not know that much about adulthood, either.  Truth often was based more on truisms than actual truth.  Coming of age meant different things to different people.  How much was centered around fairy tales? How much on make believe? I

w Growing up, I remember hearing my Mother and Grandmother advising "Follow your first mind" when decisions, especially major ones, were called for.  Not only did they provide that counsel, they followed their (own) advice.  How well did they do? I really can't recall.  Yet, I know they lived full, fruitful lives.  No, we were not as "rich as Rockefeller," but we weren't poor as church mice either.  Sociologically, the University of Chicago researchers who haunted our Near North Side neighborhoods, probably labeled us "working class," or "lower middle class." Since we were not that "socially conscious" or had not been indoctrinated into the "politically correct" dogma of the day, and certainly hadn't read their "Findings," we were content to be who we were.  We ate meat or poultry usually once a week---Sunday dinners.  Certainly, we didn't know we might have qualified as "almost" vege

Dear Mother, Growing up, I may have been unsure and insecure about many things: my 5'9" inch height at age 11; being called what now is a "Nerd" in high school; questioning my academic prowess as a 16-year old college freshman; so many other things during my life---but I never  doubted you loved me.  And it wasn't because I was the "baby of the family," or even my birth order placement as the "seventh child." You were my mentor, long before the word became commonplace and often overused.  You were my Prayer Warrior, years before I knew about "Spiritual Warfare,"  and "didn't believe in the devil!" Even when I went  through my college-explored atheism. ( No, not really; college didn't cause that) . An insatiable reader, some book must have teased me with the concept, and I explored it during  my undergrad journey. I did that. So many memories of you crowd my heart, mind, and spirit. You were a Gentle Wo

Suddenly, a palpable peace that surpassed all human understanding enveloped me like a soft, fleece blanket.  Mind, body, and spirit no longer strained, wrestled, or declared a "draw."  Fears dissipated like fog lifting over the Colorado mountains.  Like a springtime in spirit, reminiscent of cherry pink and apple white cherry trees that grace the District of Columbia (Washington).  Or, white cotton ball flowers festooning trees lined along the Parkway. Or crocuses peeking out from winter blankets in my backyard..  Ahhh!    Peace! It had been so long since I had experienced any semblance of peace; life as I had known it ended abruptly with the death of my daughter, Courtney.  I no longer measured time in days, hours, or weeks; silent screams became my metaphorical measuring cup, my walking cane.  Words that might describe what was happening eluded me.  I didn't know how or where to seek solace.  Years ago, I had tried going back to Church after my first-born gran

It would take a really long time to itemize names of  relatives whose deaths deeply affected my life. I recognize some immediately; however, others are more subtle. Many produced a melange of feelings and reactions. Others just didn't make sense, most assuredly the death of my first-born Grandson,  Philip, the heart of my thoughts today.  (Truly, no death does, especially those caused by violence; its aftermath brings debilitating and destructive responses).  I'm not the first person to identify "the roller coaster of grief,"  although I certainly felt profound relief  about five years ago when someone described it that way.  It was the first time a  label fit the ghastly mixture of emotions that assaulted me.  I felt mutilated by anger, sometimes empty and sometimes filled with surreal thoughts that knew no words, not really.  I couldn't seem to hold onto the sanity that had hallmarked my life. I haunted bookstores and lived on the Internet, searching f

"I want  Jesus to walk with me, I want Jesus to walk with me, All along my pilgrim journey, I want Jesus to walk with me." A favorite poem of mine begins, "Well son, I'll tell you, Life's for me ain't been no crystal stair." And while the poet identifies neither mom  nor son, we may assume that they come from a certain socioeconomic class; probably the Black underclass. can imagine the Mother has reasons to feel hopeless, but she doesn't! Thus, we witness the power of the spoken word, steeped in a hope that diminishes despair.   No matter age, status, or experiences, most of us live lives of isolation, if not desperation.  Whether we build our house on sprawling lots; live in expensive, urban lofts, or in cramped quarters, isolation relegates the sense of community to a distant dream.  So what happens if we experience loss? From missing the last parking space on our street; the theft of a vehicle with all the security be