Revelation 1:8 “I am the Alpha and the Omega,” says the Lord God, “who is, and who was, and who is to come, the Almighty.”
He is.
On the evening of the 48th anniversary of my birth, I walked across the park. I wanted to turn back a handful of times. I’d spent the day with The Lovelies and my belly was satisfied by the sweet chocolate decadence of my favorite cupcake. It would be so much easier to stay home.
The day had been long and lovely. A gorgeous Friday…full of Facebook love and cyber hugs. But I’d reached out to Rebekah Lyons the day before and she’d connected me with an IF Gathering in NYC. I wanted to go. The final 2 hours of the days meeting would be a gift to myself.
A brisk jaunt across a frigid Central Park presented more than enough opportunities to reconsider. Why? Why am I doing this? What’s up with this desperate craving for Christ? And the quiet attachment to this question IF God is real…then what?
I’m intrigued enough to follow His leading. And less than an hour later I hesitate before turning the door knob. Here’s another way out. Another chance to walk away from the whisper shaking through my body for the past year. It’s called. But it’s clawed and crippled. It froze and now…frees. It’s called me out of myself and I’m running after it – like a kid in a candy store…I’ve tasted. I’ve seen and I want more.
Opening the door offers a seat at His table, with His daughters….my sisters. And we share food and life and His word and I leave knowing this…
He wants to use me….and He wants to use you. The one and only…imperfect but fullest expression of you. Tongue speaking, Jesus loving, praise dancing, ‘hood celebrating, fashion dreaming….me. The soul-confessing, sacrament taking, yoga-posing….you.
I haven’t fully processed the word I received that night. I’m still working through the live stream offered free on the website until Monday at midnight. But I’m grateful for these points by Ann Voskamp…. Be mindful of prostituting your relationship with God….Giving to get means you’re creating an enterprise or measurable transaction which leads to comparison. Comparing equals soul suicide….We should destroy the measuring stick…Let’s gather to resemble His love, let’s pass the gospel from hand to hand.
I walked in wondering why and how. I serve at a prosperity preaching mega-church in the Bronx. I’m building my altar in NYC, a middle aged African-American woman, wife and mother. I’m a believer. I don’t think I fit here, but I do. Because they’re believers too and Christ has built a bridge called love and that night, I walked across.
As we prayed together, heads bowed, plush rugs cushioning our knees, brilliant city lights shining through….I knew the moment was part of my calling. I’m so glad I walked through the door.
late night selfies of a writer….because it’s my birthday!
I wrote a well received post recently. Some of the bloggers I admire most shared it and even left comments. I thanked God in that quiet way you do when, as a creative, you’ve prayed for a bit of reassurance…affirmation even. And then I worried I’d never write again because…well, anything else I’d write would be compared to that and…..? I know…I shouldn’t need it but if I’m honest, I do want to know if I’m making a connection with my readers. Blogging is hard work and some may think writers write easily and well all the time…But I’m here to tell you they’ve got it all wrong. My soul is splayed, naked and bare all over Facebook…every time I press publish….or send…or share. I know you see me. And I’m a modest gal. It’s never easy.
I love to write but have always struggled with sharing my words. Until last year, when God moved my heart to share my experience. Finally it seemed I had something to write about and more than that – a mission. I focused my attention on women facing infertility and adoption. Dancing in the middle of my own miracle gave me strength to believe for others. So I wrote to encourage and inspire.
But it wasn’t that simple. Somewhere along the way I wandered into other areas, tender topics and thoughts I’ve never shared publicly. I worry that I’ve gone too far. And if I’ve abandoned the readers who joined me to talk infertility. And how to meld what God pours into a place that honors it all.
My faith was front and center through it all and I found a whole community of women…like me…who feel called to write. That’s the cool part. But I’ve worried.
Blogging opened up a space and gave permission for anyone to call themselves a writer. And don’t get me wrong I think there’s great power in self-affirmation. But because anyone can do it…well, is there a standard of good and bad? Professional and unprofessional? Can I be a writer and am I any good? It’s easy to confuse writing with stats and subscribers and comments left on a post. Especially if you write believing its as the Lord wills. If I don’t write today(because really who has the time) will my blog die? Was my last post…the last? It’s hard to admit, but I’ve worried like that. I want to post what he pours and leave the rest to Him. I don’t want to be a slave to a blog. But all writers want to be heard and I’m no different. I want tangible proof in the form of connection. And that usually comes though comments. I want to know my words matter because your words matter to me.
It’s been a year. I’m more convinced than ever of my calling to this ministry. But I’m a novice and have a lot to learn and again – it takes so much time. I say, I’m learning to write. But it doesn’t feel like a hobby. Writing is my thing.
And my writing has changed. It takes longer to write posts lately. I can’t just crank them out anymore. Everything feels more important. Deserving of devotion and complete attention. I think I’ve fallen in love with writing. I respect the craft in a way that makes me want to grow…to be better.
I know (please tell me) I’m not alone in this.
Today I had a thought. It rang so true I received it as a word. I heard “Higher. Deeper. It’s not about names or numbers. You’re growing. Keep going.” Maybe that’s a word for you too.
So now, I’m mulling and thinking and taking my time to carefully express myself. I’m reading more and praying His vision. I’m walking in faith and praying for grace. I’m flowing with it and I know – I want to write. I write.
How has your writing changed? Do you have a word to share? Tell me about it. Leave a comment and receive automatic entry into my birthday giveaway!
P.S. Today is my birthday! And I thought I’d celebrate with a giveaway! Leave a comment and enter to win an 8×10 Epperson original print “Waiting Dancer”!
Winner will be selected and announced on Monday, February 10, 2014 via Random.org.
I lift up my eyes to the mountains—where does my help come from? My help comes from the Lord, the Maker of heaven and earth. He will not let your foot slip—he who watches over you will not slumber; indeed, he who watches over Israel will neither slumber nor sleep. The Lord watches over you—the Lord is your shade at your right hand; the sun will not harm you by day, nor the moon by night. The Lord will keep you from all harm—he will watch over your life; the Lord will watch over your coming and going, both now and forevermore.
– Psalm 121
The healing hydrotherapy of a warm stream of water can baptize you in truth. This morning I cupped my hands in surrender, head and shoulders bowed in reverence….I reached toward the source and wept. My help, my help comes from The Lord.
This was where I needed to be and everything I needed. The steady flow a consistent reminder and sweet assurance – slowing, calming the drumbeat of my heart. A seamless transition to synchronicity. And then stillness….peace. This was spirit affirmation – a God encounter. His presence enveloped my space and I couldn’t speak. Silence was the answer to quiet my questions. Dissolving all doubt.
Because I’m a feeler. And when I get too busy, neglect my devotion time or think too far ahead or for too long, I get lost. I’m a practical girl and I want concrete answers. I want solutions and tried and true formulas. I want a truth I can see.
And every time I get like this…He rocks my world with a feeling. Because He knows it’s how I respond and the reality of an experience with him is all I need.
Are you a feeler? Not in the sense of being emotional, because that can be tricky. But as a God-breathed being, in relationship with and responding to a sovereign creator. Rest, knowing your savior loves you enough to come – to you, for you. When you least expect it and need it most – you’ll feel Him.
We’re standing on 5th Avenue. At the corner of 106th St., Museum Mile to be precise. This stretch of the avenue is the densely populated home of 10 world-famous museums. The tree-lined walk along the west side of 5th Ave is none other than Central Park. Today we’re headed to NYU where The Lovelies take part in a youth chorus. We usually ride the bus. It’s a long ride. And though we’re only one avenue over from yesterdays ride, it feels much further away. Today we’re experiencing life from a vastly different point of view. The head-ache and heart-break of yesterday is gone. The visible,emotional distractions we faced on Madison Avenue have all but disappeared.
Remember the ride on Madison Avenue? The bus ride of fear filled passengers. The elderly and handicapped are over represented. Nutrition related illness is staggering in the ‘hood and a disproportionate amount passengers are overweight. Many use some type of walker for assistance. Aisles are crowded because of it. Sneaking on the bus seems to be back in fashion. It’s a clear sign of the times and the real world struggle of this community. They don’t look happy or fulfilled. They look tired.
Passengers on the downtown bus traveling along Fifth Avenue look different. The elderly and sick aren’t on the bus. If so, they’re accompanied by a family member or home attendant. They are rarely alone. A passenger may step aboard with a cane but more likely, a yoga mat. Living well seems to afford one, the opportunity to… “live well”. Tourists traveling to and from museums hop on and off. The few people of color who get on the bus are either hospital employees or nannies shuffling young charges from $30,000 a year preschools. An African-American woman on this bus…escorting her own children, stands out. The socioeconomic disparity experienced on these two routes is clear but difficult to explain to a child.
I don’t have to worry about that anymore. Ila knows the difference and she doesn’t enjoy the ride uptown. Something about being in the midst of the most down-trodden version of yourself makes you uncomfortable. I teach my children to be critical thinkers. Perceptive and aware. Images they once overlooked, now make them pause with reflection. I can literally see the wheels turning. I know it’s partly a universal parenting thing…it’s time to have the hard conversations about everything they see. But it’s something more. It’s witnessing fear.
This is fear you can see and feel. It greets you at the door and pushes you into a seat. It grips your throat and won’t let you speak. This fear is real. And as the Madison Avenue bus rolls onward…up hill and uptown, my thought, I swear, my only thought is this “Is this thing contagious because although we aren’t of this world…we are very much in it.” We can’t live in fear.
Economic disparities aren’t new. What I’m talking about is being in the middle. Living in the middle of so much change is unsettling. In this brave new world we’re only presented with 2 images and we fit neither. Not fully identifying with either side, we almost feel like foreigners in our own community.
The disparity we’re experiencing now is due, in large part to the effects or after – shocks of gentrification – all in the name of progress. Unfortunately for Harlem, the historic capital of African-American culture, the process of progress appears to be stomping out a long history of rich black culture and community. The thread of our existence is slowly being pulled from a cloth we created.
photo – flickr ccphoto: flickr cc
So here’s my question….Is the gradual upheaval of a community, tied solely to dependence on an unfair economic advantage, ever fair? We’re watching a game and already know the winning team. The playing field was never level. The expected nostalgia for fond memories of home have been replaced by despondency. This community lives in fear. Do they expect to lose?
What happens to a community of people who feel left out. Do you fight? When do you call it quits? Can you live happily somewhere in the middle? Economic planning committees have not factored the heart and soul of a community into the vision of this “new” New York City. There seems to be no plan for a middle and that’s troubling in the worst way.
photo : flickr cc
I don’t argue some of the benefits of gentrification. It started back in the day with a Body a Shop on 125th St. Now there’s. M.A.C. and Duane Reade and Starbucks. It’s nice to have the convenience of major chains like this. But it comes at a cost. Sort of like when you visited your best cousin and she let you play with her doll. Sure you are allowed to play but let’s be clear… the doll belonged to her…and “aren’t you leaving soon anyway?” My friends on the Madison Avenue bus aren’t buying $4.00 chocolate chip cookies at the swanky new bakery just off 116th St. They can’t afford it and its presence keeps them at arm’s length from enjoying the benefits touted by this particular brand of community revival.
photo: flickr cc
I’m not against change. What I want is inclusion. I want my face and faces like mine permanently woven into the tapestry of this community. I want to continue to buy shea butter from the street vendor on 125th. I want to see up and coming authors hawking their self-published dreams on folding tables. I want to feel the vibrancy of a thriving community where everyone is invited to the table when it comes to access to the “best” schools. I want access to everything the gentrification salesman offers, even top-notch bakeries. I want to happily patronize their small businesses. What I don’t want is to be forced out.
The bottom line is a need for meaningful investment and serious dialogue on ownership and security. Without serious conversation and plans for inclusion, the stage is set for a volatile combustible third act. I fully expect outbreaks of outrage. Because you can only push people so far. Unless we want some sort of Wild West stand-off between the haves and have-nots, things have to change. Something’s got to give.
uptown – one view / gentrification photo : Flickr cc by Uptownflavor Photo
In the past few months 2 gas stations servicing my neighborhood and a well-loved community grocery store have disappeared. In the coming months you’ll see construction begin on the hi-rises planned to replace them. My daughters figure skating team – Figure Skating in Harlem, had to fight for ice time at Riverbank State park. A park that was gifted to the community as appeasement for creating a water treatment facility more than 20 years ago. The park sits on top of the facility. When affluent boys hockey teams thought it cool to venture into the ‘hood they were given a whopping 85% of the total ice time. I know. Crazy.
I talked with an acquaintance who moved here from the Midwest and her thoughts were simple. “We should be able to live wherever we want,” she said, thoroughly convinced of her entitlement. And she’s right – if you isolate that statement in a bubble. But on the other end, is a hard question. Does your entitlement usurp another’s?
flickr cc – djprybyl
I know it shouldn’t feel personal, but it does. Gentrification is personal. I want my children to know Harlem’s story. I want them to feel the powerful sense of ownership that comes from knowing and living in a positive piece of our history. Because they’re entitled too.
Displacement is personal. It means someone else has to move to make room for you. You’ll buy a former poorly maintained rental and move into it completely refurbished. And I’ll be honest it won’t be easy to visit you, knowing what happened to the former tenant, my friend. Yeah that happens, because if you’re one of the few who manage to hang around, the change will hurt. Maybe it will hurt enough to make you leave. Is that what happens to most of the people in the middle? They leave.
A luxury condo stands majestic and proud. It looms large over a food pantry directly across the street. Everyone on the long line looks like us. Every Friday, an in your face look at the reality of life for so many. More and more working people need services like this. No one living in the building does. How do you explain the disparity? Is it luck, power, choices, economics? Everybody’s got an opinion and I don’t have an answer but the tension of this weekly happening on 1 city corner is palpable. There’s enough fuel here to set a fire.
The problem with the bus ride is the Madison Avenue passengers seemed to have stopped believing. But I’m on that bus. And I’m a believer. There’s no denying I’m a very real part of this world. Ballet and education changed my life, brought me experiences and opportunities that shape who I’ve become. But financial struggles are real words in my home. It’s an invasive viper that stings and bites. Like many, we juggle from moment to moment.
I live the hope of God but the bus, the bus ride makes me weary. We live in two worlds. Reconciling one with the other is exhausting. Our lives have intersected with box office celebrities. We play soccer with their children. We attend parties and play dates. But in the end is the ride home…up Madison Avenue.
The head ache and heart-break of city life is written all over their faces. The stress of trying to stay is on the bus. The new buildings and stores, revitalization they say. It’s funny but none of the money was available to renovate the playground until the luxury hi-rise appeared. Coincidence? Not likely. The concept of change makes me think – “for the better”…the image is almost always positive, but transposed against this backdrop, it’s an illusion. I’m not fooled. A community is dying.
“Gentrification is about displacement.”
That no one that looks like me is living in these building is what troubles me. That few like me seem to be benefit from the change is what bothers me. Don’t get it twisted, I love being able to buy a latte at an upscale coffee-house but I don’t want a community…the heart of a community to crumble for a few sips of fine french roast. No one would argue the benefits of better schools, hospitals, less crime and improved housing. I just don’t want to have to leave and watch someone else enjoy the things we’ve rallied and waited for…for years.
photo: flickr cc – jarito Delano Village is now Savoy Park
This is not the end and there is hope. Abyssinian Development Corp is committed to preventing the displacement of Harlem residents by increasing the availability of quality housing to people of diverse incomes. Community Boards 10 and 11 have earned reputations as the powerful voice/force of the people in Harlem. They are mandated by the City Charter of the City of New York and are responsible for participating in long-term community planning and advocacy for tenants. I’ll be at a meeting in February.
As for Ila? Through experience, opportunity and so much grace, she’ll live the bigger picture. No matter where we live and despite any stories to the contrary, she’ll remain, His. Her world is amazing and full of people who love and affirm her. We’ll talk and attend rallies. I’ll share the broken truth of the human heart, how pain veils itself and can’t always be seen. Often, it doesn’t look like we imagine it to. Surely brokenness has her say on the Fifth Avenue bus. Above all, we’ll hold fast to the truth of our security in Christ. His story overrides any we hear on the bus.
P.S. I know this was long. It was hard too. My intention isn’t to demonize or decrease, for that matter, any of the players in this story. I’ve shared my truth in hope’s of shedding a little light and heart on what, for me, is a real concern. Do you live in a city threatened by gentrification? What are some of the positive steps you’ve seen your city carry out to soften the line between the old and new guard?
