Thou, Lord, hast made us for Thyself and our heart is restless until it finds rest in Thee. – St. Augustine
As a deer longs for flowing streams, so my soul longs for you, O God. – Psalm 42 : 1
“If we find ourselves with a desire that nothing in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that we were made for another world.” ― C.S. Lewis
Sabbath found me this week. Surrender was my only choice. In all my doing I sometimes forget, sabbath finds me. It’s how I’m taken apart and put back together again by a God who knows well the rebuilding and reshaping work of creation.
In any given week I’ve poured and spent, I’ve filled and consumed. I’ve sustained and nourished. But life demands a refilling. Life reminds me to slow down – to honor my belief in the cycle of a bud, to surrender to the truth of the maze – to live free we must rest. Life demands I still myself long enough to silence any semblance of chaos, to reconnect with His rhythm, remember the altar.
These days, I remember my altar on the bridle path outside the reservoir in Central Park, just north of 96th Street, when my run is complete. Or on the hill at 110th Street and Morningside Drive, as I make my way home from school – the downward slope is a familiar hallmark for the half way spot between seminary and home. And too, the sweet pockets of time filled with love from my lovelies. Children are living tabernacles of grace – the very best reminder of everything holy.
Sabbath is the healing work of reflection. A silent meditation on gratitude. The stuff that brings me back to myself – the God centering work of readying my soul for this thing called life – and I can’t escape it.
Sabbath will find you.
In the sliver of time between the pick up or drop off, the car pool or bus ride – may He find you. In the measured movement that marks a step, when you write your to-do list or don’t list, in the eternity called a moment, between the question and answer – may you find your way – toward an unavoidable, inescapable Sabbath.
Let let your handmaiden find grace in your sight…#GiveMeGrace
Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light to my path.
– Psalm 119:105 NKJV
We sat side by side on the straw bound chairs in the second floor chapel. It’s hard to describe the delightful hodgepodge of people who make up a seminary class. Bright eyed former undergrads eager to get on with this thing called masters level work, seasoned adults returning to connect again with a nagging inner student. We’re believers and unbelievers, seekers…and dreamers – pilgrims of every age, shape, color and size. Enamored, beholden to the mystery.
This gathering of sojourners fit me perfectly.
But I didn’t think so.
Having expressed myself creatively all my life, I felt disqualified from the world of academia. The voice that said you aren’t smart rang loudest in my head. First brash and obnoxious, then quiet – an insipid dull whisper – disguised as truth. An ugly idea turned belief.
I’m still more inclined to the arts. Whether dancing or designing jewelry or clothing, my intrinsic leaning is toward God inspired creative expression – a spirit transaction of faith begging the slow awakening of my soul. But God opened a door – first in my head, then, in my heart – a longing for a step beyond, an imagining of what He might do if I dared lift my voice, offer my ideas and intellect to public conversations. Blogging and writing in Christian communities was a first step of faith – it’s how I offered my vessel, made room for God to breathe life on a dream I didn’t know I had.
And God is refining the dream. I sense an embodied chorus of movement and prayer …words…syncopated, sacred, a melding of soul and spirit. A symphony. Nothing about this choreography feels familiar but my soul responds to the truth of a song the angels sing over us daily – Immanuel, God with us. Immanuel, God with us. Immanuel, God with us.
I don’t run this race alone.
This opportunity didn’t happen without effort but God showed me, if I put one foot in front of the other there’d be a creaking of the boards, a loosening of the hinge…He would open the door.
Are you nursing a hunger for something new, wondering if, how … when? Take a step and trust God with the outcome. His word is a lamp to your feet, a light to your path.
Let your handmaiden find grace in your sight … #GiveMeGrace
Be strong and courageous. Do not be frightened, and do not be dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go.” – Joshua 1:9
“All you need to understand is that the officer carries with him the power of the American state and the weight of an American legacy, and they necessitate that of the bodies destroyed every year, some wild and disproportionate number of them will be black.” – Ta-Nehisi Coates
So boy, don’t you turn back. Don’t you set down on the steps ‘Cause you finds it’s kinder hard. Don’t you fall now – Mother to Son by Langston Hughes
Christ’s love is greater than any person can ever know. But I pray that you will be able to know that love. Then you can be filled with the fullness of God. – Ephesians 3:19 ICB
I listed the quotes above because they capture perfectly the heart of this phase of mothering – specifically a son of color. Sandwiched between the word of God I can’t ignore the times we live in. My mother’s heart is stretching. My son is becoming a man. My mother’s heart is aching.
Infertility pushed me into a lonely corner – becoming a mama pulled me out. LiChai saved my life. If you’ve known me any length of time you’ve heard me say this. I say it because its true. He was God’s love come down as a child, that I might know the gift of motherhood. And he was perfect – everything a new mother could ask for.
I’ve watched him grow and change and become more of himself. I’ve had the great pleasure of parenting without genetic expectations haunting our relationship. We’ve been free to grow as mother and son. One of the greatest benefits of adoptive parenting is having the privilege of parenting with eyes wide open. I see him. I always have.
I pray he is embraced by a world that sees him too.
My son is a 14-year-old black male. He’s more man than boy and any protection being a cute kid carried – is fading. I won’t be there with him to explain. I won’t be there to remind him – of all the things I’ve told him. Did he hear me? Between mouthfuls of pancakes and the uncounted hours logged on Minecraft – will he remember?
I knew this day would come.
He’s traveled solo since he was 12 – but only on a bus. One bus and only once a week. He’s a rising freshman at a high school in the Bronx. In the fall he’ll travel to school on the subway alone – every day. Two trains. Between boroughs. Pardon me while I hold my heart. This feels different. This is huge.
I’ve held him close. Our homeschooling journey has kept us in a special world, one I’ve felt incredibly blessed to have experienced. We’ve read books in bed on lazy Monday mornings and unschooled at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. We’ve taken longer on somethings and rushed through others. It’s been rich. But the climate of racial tension – combined with the wing flapping of a young man as he prepares to leave the nest – has me particularly mindful and just a bit stressed.
This isn’t a post so much as a prayer. For when you’re traveling solo – Mother to son.
Dear LiChai,
I pray the angels of God follow you wherever you go.
I pray your favor with God and man … for the people you’ll sit or stand next to when you travel.
I pray your wisdom and discernment
I pray you know the scent of danger and are quick to turn away from it.
I pray the person you bump with your back pack accepts your apology. I pray you’ll remember to offer it.
I pray in stressful situations you’re able to think clearly and communicate effectively.
I pray for the people in authority over you – that their hearts would be turned to justice and mercy. I pray you are always treated fairly.
and the practical stuff…
Always carry your identification.
Keep a $5 bill in your shoe. If you lose your metro card you’ll thank me.
If you need help find a woman with children and respectfully ask for it. Other mothers are my go to for help when it comes to children. I’m sticking with it.
Don’t be loud and obnoxious on the train after school. I know you’re bonding and shooting the breeze after a long day but try to keep it down. Be respectful of your elders, offer your seat to a disabled, elderly or pregnant person. And always offer it to a woman (I’m old school like that).
Take a moment to help a mother carrying a stroller up the stairs. She’s struggling with over 50 lbs of baby and stroller. Get your gentleman points by acknowledging her presence and offering to help.
Whatever I’ve given and whatever I’ve lacked may you know you come from a place of love. I pray you live the life of an entitled soul. You deserve the goodness of God.
Make your mama proud, act like you know.
Let your handmaiden find grace in your sight…#GiveMeGrace
In the 2 block walk across the park to the train station, I see it. The harsh reality of life, the ever-widening space between those who have, those who have not … and everything in between. Growing up surrounded by a concrete landscape makes you numb. Dedicated green spaces like Central Park are an invitation to enter a safe a space, to remember a dialogue exists between hard and soft, that sunrise and sunset are real everywhere – that the middle ground is where we learn to negotiate the terrain – to feel.
We train ourselves, our heart and emotions to nimbly dance around it all. We call it survival. Survivors know too many feelings can be dangerous. We can pull back the curtain to see the beauty of the heavenly realm at any time…but its opposite exists too. That’s the part we grow numb to.
Across the street from the park is the Lincoln Correctional Facility. When my heart won’t let me pretend not to see it, I fret over the truth of a school to prison pipeline, a system that disproportionately finds people of color in its clutches. Park-side, men sprawl on benches lining the entrance. They aren’t locked up, but you wouldn’t exactly call them free.
That bench was a bed last night and I can’t help but wonder how many have known a night of sleep in the jail across the street. For how many will it become known? Am I looking at the past or future lineup, face to face with the rotation of players in a sad sidewalk story?
It’s a public but sacred lamentation, this walk along the park. No matter what the proponents of gentrification say, I know what I see. This is a failed urban economy and it seems designed to perpetuate the permanency of an underclass.
Tammy Hendricksmeyer and friends graciously invite us to reflect on this and more.
