Notes From A Broken Heart

Struggle.  Struggle marks my days.  Sometimes it even dogs my steps, from the moment I open my eyes to a brand new day until I let Kai, my faithful friend, out to start his day.   What's the struggle?   I must choose "joy" or "sadness" to define or endorse the next 24-hours.  No matter whether I open my eyes to the sun or shadow, my choice initiates an internal dialogue.  Where does it begin?  In the head first, or is it the heart?  The brain where consciousness identifies current events or past history? Or the heart which stores hurt, anguish, or pain that pumps like a tangled water hose---in spurts, squirts, or drops? Or does another phenomenon occlude all of them? Do I sound like a kid proudly reciting the recently learned "ABC" ditty to adoring relatives?  An amazing example of parental duplicity reminds me of what I used to say four out of five days to moody, teenage daughters (redundant?), "It's your choice, Baby Girl; it's up to you

"Keep on pushin' Keep on pushin' I've got to keep on pushin' I can't stop now Move up a little higher Someway or somehow..."  Many who remember the Impressions or Curtis Mayfield render their poignant renditions, "Keep on Pushin'"  know the song carries social and spiritual import.  It motivates and challenges.   Coaches and mentors often invoke its declaration to urge younger charges to start and finish a project, program, or plan.  Especially since pushing often comes easier than pulling.  I tend to use less energy pushing a wheelbarrow across a rocky road than pulling a wagon filled with bricks up a hill.  The former can be done  while the latter seems downright  cumbersome.    It took years to understand that we can occupy various dimensions, the natural and spiritual among them.  Surely, however,  I'm no  arbiter of "dimensions."  Both Old and New Testament Scripture chronicles people and situations that required sustained

Dear Friend, I'm not using your "real" name to protect your identity, but  you know who you are! I know you probably wouldn't mind since you've always been an "easy-to-get-along-with" kind of guy.  Recently, I heard through a mutual friend about the deaths of your two sons.  Shocking!  I knew in my gut the grief battle that has/had engulfed you.  I began to pray,  the only thing I know how to do.  "Precious Lord, take my hand,  Lead me on, let me stand, I am tired, I am weak, I am worn; Through the storm, Through the night, Lead me on to the light, Take my hand, precious Lord, Lead me home."  I prayed (and continue to) for your spirit; the condition of your heart; and the travail that follows you like your shadow.  In ways, Grief moves everywhere you move; it becomes your silhouette.  And when the sun goes down and your shadow companion disappears for a while, dark clouds replace it.  Like a starless night, midnight black envelopes your very so

"Order my steps in Your Word dear Lord Lead me, guide me every day Send Your anointing, Father I pray; Order my steps in Your Word Please order my steps in Your Word."  If I had piggy banked a nickel every time I hummed, sang along, or prayed just the first verse of this song, I'd be rolling in dough today.  While I don't remember when I first heard the "Brooklyn Tabernacle Choir render it, its request took up residence in heart and mind.  It became my "Go-To" song, my plaintive plea. Eventually, one Sunday the choir prefaced Pastor's sermon with the song; in turn, he preached an invigorating message.  He presented a "Let go and let God" encompassing past and present-day reasoning that convinced and convicted me!  More often than not, though, my "Order my steps" requests resulted in prayers answered! Petitions not producing the desired response?  Quickly forgotten.  Truthfully, in fact, my prayers sprouted like dandruff on a dry

"...I know this: I was blind but now I see" (John 9:25, NLT Hmm.  Except now that I do see, images crowd in and upon me.  Words flow like water from a spigot that slows but doesn't stop. Pictures from the past intrude on space reserved for holding grudges, resentments, and offenses! Startling visions crowd me, making it difficult to navigate either physically or emotionally.  I stand hapless, trying simply to inhale and  exhale in the same hour, day, week, or month .   "Stop the world I want to get off And find myself a better ride Stop the world I want to get off Paid in full and now goodbye."  These dated lyrics illuminate my reasoning for avoiding substantive interpersonal connections.  Rather, the words more than likely explain avoidance.  Because I didn't have the gumption (one of my {Grand} Mama's words) to try and find intention, coherence , or  meaning  in what passed as my life, I floundered.  Akin to beginning a science fiction novel in its m

Chameleon-like, grief and its conceptual framework changed before I knew what was happening. It took years for me to connect the emotions I experienced as either sadness, uneasiness, loss, or "just a funny feeling."  And far longer before I recognized the "dots" Holy Spirit had been "connecting" to my sense of self.   Yes, Holy Spirit-Connected-Dots! L et me try to traverse the expanse of growth, living, and learning it has taken me to look Life squarely in the eyes.  More than anything, it called for surrender to Power greater than I could've imagined.   Abbreviated, because the small passage described here would take a book of some size to capture.    I grew up sheltered from the hustle and bustle of everyday living.  Our family was poor---not poverty-stricken---but "working poor."  Even so or maybe because of our status, my parents exercised great caution to shield me from "stuff" they thought I shouldn't "see," eve