Encourage Yourself!

Go ahead, Dorothie! Unclench the jaws closed so tightly they appear to be soldered together. Relax the tension in your shoulder blades and unflex the fists that seem ready either to throw the next blow or receive one.  Release the glower that began as a worried crease between the eyes and morphed into a  menacing glare that telegraphs animosity.  Relax.  God's got this, and everything else that seems ready to take me out. 

Go back to what I know.  Stroll memory's lanes and recount all the times God rescued.  All the times He calmed storms and rendered powerless the chimera that chased you.  Why do I again insist on drinking from the fountain of despair, anguish, and near-hopelessness?  I know better.

And I do know better.  I know the question the Sons of Korah asked and answered in Psalm 42:11: "Why are you cast down, O my soul, and why are you in turmoil within me? Hope in God, for I shall again praise him, my salvation, and my God."  Their "why" question propelled me into a long-overdue bout with introspection.  Why is it so easy to fall or slide or jump to the worst-case scenario? Especially when I've never been diagnosed with a condition called amnesia? 

At least five years ago, a long-time friend of mine responded to the litany of woes I'd recited to him.  "Dorothie," he said, "Always remember what  God has already done for you. Take the time and honestly look at how God has come through before every time."  While I conceded the truth of his counsel, I rarely ever took time to start an inventory, much less complete one.  Complaining and whining or better still, finding someone to commiserate with me, while temporary, often soothed like an opiate. I'm just telling the truth, especially about moi.  

Truth be told, I come from a race of people that not only demonstrated strength and resiliency enough to endure centuries-long slavery and discrimination at their worst.  My ancestors possessed spiritual strength, faith, and endurance unparalleled except in this enforced enslavement.  I think about the inventiveness and creativity of my grandmother who literally could take a few ingredients and produce a feast.  Maybe that explains the genesis of "groaning boards" that not only marked holidays and celebrations but also everyday sustenance.  

(Nor am I saying only the Black race did.  It's just our history here in the United States is too clear to minimize or ignore).

I've half-kiddingly said before that we were "situational vegetarians."  Mother prepared meatless meals at least five days a week. Weekends brought hot dogs, hamburgers, and fries or coleslaw (a treat) while Sunday meals featured chicken,  either beef or pork roast, veggie and carb sides, and desserts.  Still, we grew up healthy and happy.  Reminds me of the song that introduced the Archie Bunker sitcom: "Those were the days, my friend.  We thought they'd never end..."

I now practice the art of encouraging myself.  I realize I join a throng of naysayers who more readily see the cloud and not the silver lining.  Yet, I sing, off-key of course:

"Sometimes, you have to encourage yourself.
Sometimes you have to speak victory during the test.
And no matter how you feel,
speak the word and you will be healed;
speak over yourself,
encourage yourself in the Lord."

There! I feel better already.