Notes From A Broken Heart

Unbidden.  In a stentorian or orator's voice and cadence:  "Rejoice in the Lord always.   And again, I will say, Rejoice! Let your gentleness be known to everyone." "Pray, sir, tell me what I have been tasked to do, and why fetter me with "rejoice"? Your last inhale and exhale.  The last breath you took before that one.  Your mind.  And as the church deacons testified, "Waking up clothed and in your right mind, with a reasonable portion of health and strength." I don't feel  like it.  And before you ask, I'll tell you.  Life's not fair! It's rigged.  I feel like "Mother to Son," without hope: "Well, son, I'll tell you: Life for me ain't been no crystal stair, It's had tacks in it, And splinters, And boards torn up, And places with no carpets on the floor--- Bare." And you tell me to rejoice? I don't know what you've been smoking but I bet it has no brand name! Be still.  Peace, be still.  I&#

Thankfully, these times when burdens almost cause my shoulders to meet in the middle of my chest and my neck seems to disappear altogether; when I feel like I'm teetering, overwrought, on the edge of a cliff, afraid to cough or sneeze, these burdens come infrequently. What do I do? What can I do? What ought I do? Do I remember the "God is love" maxim? Can I disappear within a love, frankly, I can neither feel nor see, taste, or touch? How do I know He is there? Do I grope in the darkness, unable to get a sense of where walls and doors may be, or whether I'm walking into even greater uncertainty? What if my fertile imagination has been working overtime and things aren't as bad, as dismal, as they seem? What if this time mirrors the mirages I used to "see" when I'd drive early on a Saturday morning from Las Vegas to Los Angeles? As the sun rose and shone on the highway I'd see a pool of water in the distance.  Except I never drove through it becau

I've especially reverenced the traditional Thanksgiving Day celebration and all the excitement that preceded it. Shopping for the feast (with an eye toward post-Thanksgiving leftover meals and snacks.  Cooking the cornbread (for dressing) boiling elbow macaroni; shredding or slicing assorted cheeses; blending milk or cream, eggs, and spices for MacnCheese.  Peeling and boiling sweet and white potatoes for candied yams or sweet potato pies and creamy, dreamy mashed potatoes.   De-stemming, washing, and cutting collards, mustard, turnips, and spinach greens.  For the mixed greens dish.  And that's not all: relish trays,  cobblers, "angel eggs, " cranberry sauce, yeast rolls, a cornucopia of desserts, and varied drinks all figure prominently in the offerings.  Not to mention the dusting, vacuuming, cleaning of everything but the attic; and dressing the best table with heirloom coverings, linen, and candles.  And no, I'm not tired yet!    It happens whether you're

  My dynamic journalism teacher first introduced "The 5Ws and H" method to a class of eager, impressionable, and inquisitive ninth grade apprentices.  She introduced us to notable news figures. from Ida B. Wells, Jack Anderon, Ben Bradlee, Dorothy Thompson, to Walter Lippman among others, icons in the art and business of writing and reporting.  By the time we had attained "veteran" status as senior high school editors of the "Marshall News," we couldn't wait to debut as fully prepared news and feature reporters after college graduation.  Indeed, the world would become our oyster! The 5Ws and H serve as the foundation of traditional news articles, which occupy prominence on the first page of the first section of newspapers.  Paragraphs that follow build upon the "lead," or first paragraph.  Our journalism instructor supervised the efforts of news, features, and sports coverage staff.  She managed "putting the paper to bed" on the las

  During the predawn hours of a recent morning, as enemies of my peace toll bells announcing doom and doom; when a roster of anxiety and fear, doubt and fear, and trepidation and fear threaten to sweep me up in their tentacles; when I cannot shut off thoughts that drip like an old, leaky faucet, a still, small voice urges me, "Remind Him." "Remind Him," the voice repeated, "Of His promises." " Wait a minute; who is this? Where is this coming from?" "Remind Him.  Go back to  His Word,; go back to songs you learned in  Sunday hymns and congregational songs, and remind Him." "Oh." Like when He said, "Let not your heart be troubled. You believe in God, believe also in me."   Or when He promised, "Ask and it shall be given you; seek and you shall find; knock and the door shall be opened to you?" Is that what I should ask? "Yes!" "Like when it says in His Word that His answers are always "yes&

  I want first to be clear; I write from the position of a woman who possesses dunamis power.  "Dynamite" power that I do not use nearly enough.  Second, I pen from the place of a woman "Well acquainted with grief," who carries the scars of perceived failures and dashed hopes.  Finally, I speak my truth, and no one else's. "Genius is the ability to ask the correct, precise questions," I firmly believe. Why? Essentially, thoughts scatter themselves across the mind's landscape of past experiences,  false notions, or changing realities.  All of which jeopardize accuracy and faithfulness to true meanings.  Learning to pose questions takes skill, practice, and endurance.   Perhaps, it explains why toddlers pepper  the answers we offer them with  the perennial "why." Why? They prod for more precise responses.  Undeterred by clarity or its lack;  reasoning; or even a frustrated "Because," motivates their insistence on a satisfactory a

Perhaps I build my own blockades, my own dams, working at them as feverishly as beavers energetically erect theirs.  Maybe I've become so comfortable deflecting blame onto someone or something else that I'd forgotten how the grievance started in the first place. Have I received comfort from being the aggrieved one, from folding and blending anger and pain as I would stir eggs and butter into the batter of my life? How does martyrdom or self-flagellation give me the imprimatur victimhood? How do I see me? As hunted or hunter? Philippians 4:13 assures "I can do all things through him who strengthens me.  "All."   That tiny, three-letter word packs dynamite power in its potential and promise.  Do I see me as a little person surrounded by giants ?  Because too many of my responses have fallen into the "affirmative" column,  I must embrace the promises offered in the Holy Bible to confront needed change, with no hemming, hawing, or hedging.  I must reject  t