It was Christmas and the long drive out to southern New Jersey made my legs cramp and tingle. I jumped out of my seat, folding arms around my most valued possession. That year, I was happy. That year, I had a baby to hold. I made a beeline for the entrance. Making my way to my brothers’ always open door, I trudged through fresh fallen snow.
Cold rushed in behind me but couldn’t compete with their cozy home. I pushed the door shut with my free arm and enjoyed the heart warming feeling of family…of home. Surrounded by faces I love, I looked up to see my sister-in-law coming down the stairs. She had just given birth to their third child…a boy. And I had forgotten the particular sting a new baby brings to a woman who cannot birth her own children. I was in love with my son and in so many ways fulfilled, when I remembered. Adoption isn’t a cure for infertility. It healed my hurt but didn’t cure the longing.
I’m guest posting over at www.makeroomformommy.com with fellow infertility warrior Evangeline Colbert today. We’re talking winter and waiting. Join us here to read more.
I was in the kitchen when I heard the news. I wanted to throw the eggs I was cracking against the wall but instead, lowered tear-filled eyes. My 13-year-old son walked in wanting to know what was wrong and I just didn’t have the words. Jesus, not again.
My husband was nearby and we’d begun discussing it. But I was heated and hurt and must admit there was a little bass in my voice. Bass with a whole lot of blues. So I lowered my eyes, went over to the stove and my husband did interference. I cannot talk to my preteen son about this. Again.
The house is quiet now. I stayed up late to make zucchini bread for the early morning ride to the rink. I went to the kitchen and stopped. The sweet smell of baking bread and the warmth of the kitchen made me feel good. Safe even. But my heart. My heart is broken and the sensation that crept through my veins traveling to the tips of my toes and back…. left me feeling empty. I sank to the floor and wept. Because I don’t want to talk about this again.
Feelings are funny. The process had been interrupted earlier and my feelings, stuffed down deep – in that place parents put things when they don’t have time. We unconsciously and automatically tuck and stow emotions away…until later. We delay the process. But they always resurface – the comfortable, late night quiet of my kitchen, a perfect place to deal with my emotions. A good vent is redemptive. I share my words to release a bit of the combustible fuel of my feelings, especially when I hurt. Then, let God deal with my fears …my heart in prayer.
The ongoing message sent around the world is that a life, a black life, is free for the taking. White men are entitled to stand their ground and kill innocent, unarmed boys. Let’s be clear I live in and know the ‘hood. I see boys all the time that are up to no good. I see boys who would cuss me and steal my purse without a thought. Yes, I see them. But I also see…in the ‘hood, boys like my son. They’re intelligent, witty and funny. They love science and Legos and Minecraft. They read books voraciously. They’re respectful and kind. They love Jesus. They have girlfriends and respect women and elders. They show love to the littles in their lives. They attend college and have career aspirations. Boys, who certainly get into mischief, but shouldn’t have their lives threatened for simply being and living – in their black skin.
So how to explain this and how to make sense of the senseless.
Come thou fount of every blessing Tune my heart to sing Thy grace Streams of mercy never-ceasing Call for songs of loudest praise
I’ve got another twenty minutes on the timer before the bread is done. I still have to wash my hair. I didn’t do my plank. I’m leaving the dishes in the sink. I hope the alternates get to skate the opening block. I’m thirsty.
Y’all gon’ make me lose my mind up in here, up in here Y’all gon’ make me go all out up in here, up in here Y’all gon’ make me act a fool up in here, up in here Y’all gon’ make me lose my cool up in here, up in here – DMX
Sigh. Random thoughts and wanderings of one woman, processing the collective pain of a community. I feel both of these songs. My praise is filled with fire. My heart torn and troubled. This hurts.
I can’t tell him about this. It isn’t supposed to be this way. And it’s just too soon. We’ve barely healed from Trayvon’s murder, a nation wide wound and giant two steps back in the struggle for equality. The gash is deep. I can’t tell him about this. I don’t want him to grow up believing the lie. In the land of opportunity and big dreams…this is the fairy tale gone wrong.
I’ve got questions.
What about “freedom and justice FOR ALL? What about fear that grips and grows from tragedies like this? What about apathy and insensitivity as a response? And then…What about Christ in and through all…coming and dying for love. What about love?
My pastor spoke last week on how our initial reactions to a thing can determine the outcome. How we should always respond in faith. It was an earlier taping that we were streaming. In it, he said we’d be tested and we’d remember this teaching.
So this is my faith-filled love response to an unjust world. A world that repeatedly tells me and people who look like me, specifically my sons, we can’t do the same things other people do, we can’t go places other people go, or experience value for our lives as human beings…like other people do. In Christ…we can do better. We have to. Any stab at unity between races is an attack on us all and I’m on my knees in prayer raging war.
This, my God… offered as holy, heavenly tongue – as redemptive song and loving affirmation …sing it with me – Black lives matter! Black lives matter! Black lives matter!
for and with my friends Deidra and Michelle. Let love rule!
in memorium… Jordan Davis…rest well little soldier
They didn’t grow that year. Not the year before, or the year after. We’d planted and prayed and believed and hoped and still….no baby. A womb is a garden and there’s something particularly soul crushing about planting season after season…with no fruit.
The dry wasteland of a lush garden gone wild. An arid bed of unfulfilled dreams. Words like barren become part of who you are. Even as you water, tend and pray for the opportunity to prune. Heel to plow we settle in for the work – we believe…harvest will come.
Labor in the garden is public. Stress from pressure to perform makes the waiting unbearable. We’re desperate for quiet from prying eyes. But they’re watching. They’re waiting. The public display of your private garden is something they want to see. They want to see your love.
It’s hard when love doesn’t grow a baby. When dreams of family are usurped by a season of waiting. You wonder if your work is pointless. If time spent on your knees in prayer for wisdom and direction are nothing more than time wasted under a sweltering, unforgiving sun. Under the direction of a relentless task master and merciless Son.
But time in the garden is never wasted. We were hand-picked and placed in the garden. It’s His gift, His desire and declaration of love. It’s the garden of God and His love is ever-present. After so many seasons in the garden I’m sure now, more than ever of His love…and that His love never left.
Don’t give up. Don’t rush your seasons. The garden is the blessing of Immanuel…God with us. He is love and gifts the garden. Sow his word. Let it mature. Because more than anything what’s growing is you.
You can take part in an amazing love challenge – Lisa Jo and the gang are raising $150,000 to develop a community center in South Africa. The first phase is a vegetable “garden”…(our prompt today) click here to find out more.
She lived in Harlem. Every year she took her only son to see the Alvin Ailey American Dance Theatre perform. That’s all I knew about her. And that was enough. A single mom, using a limited entertainment budget, to take a son to an annual dance performance? This was a woman I could connect with. I believe I would have liked her. I would have enjoyed a quiet moment and a cup of coffee with a woman like that.
I inherited her kitchen table set when she passed away almost 8 years ago. It wasn’t in great shape then, but we needed a table and my husbands’ friend was giving away some of his mothers’ belongings. Back then The Lovelies were a pair…5 and 3 years old. I loved the idea of growing my family around a table that held stories of its own.
Today we’ve lost a chair, the legs are weak and wobbly. I can’t tell you what lurks in the spaces that connect the 3 panels together. Bits and remnants of so many days baking and working at a table that now holds my families truth. We’ve baked biscuits, braided hair, learned grammar, pulled teeth…played with ooblek and at night, I check math and scribble my heart fast and furious on the pages of my journal – at this kitchen table.
I love, we love this table. It’s old school. Seventies style, engineered wood, beveled legs. Probably from a store like Mays or Korvettes. Do you remember them? But I loved it. Our first meals taken at the table were lean but happy times. Our table, God provision and promise.
Kitchen tables are dream catchers, creators of community. Every gathering a blessing and reminder to hold our families closer. All the love I can hold is seated around my table. It’s a flower bearer and bill collector. And when it’s quiet, which is rare, it’s a great place for a good cry. It’s our hub, the Grand Central of our home.
This morning I chopped onions and red peppers for a frittata while the Lovelies worked through word problems. The table creaked and rattled as my son pushed an eraser across the lined pages of a spiral bound notebook. It moaned its years.
We need a new table. But I’m not ready. Letting go of this table will hurt. I cling to the memories and see the faces of my family through the years…at my kitchen table.
