Children of Man

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Last night, in the kitchen with my oldest son, I realized for the first time all of the emotions my mother fought so hard to get me to understand back when I was his age.

Life is truly a balance when you become a parent. You want to see your children experience all of the good, give them all of the best gifts, and protect from any harm you ever personally knew, plus more. Yet, you also want to prepare them for the fact that the harshness in reality is very true, and in your raising process, you hope to armor them enough to withstand it. 

Like me, my oldest sees the conditions in which he feels we allow for our younger son to take advantage. Also like me, my eldest feels that it is his place to vocalize his objections in the way we parent.  He does this with full intention of what he feels he is offering us in the manner of help, but not realizing that as the actual "experienced" parents in the household, we know what we are doing, as well as what we deal with.

In my late teens, and early twenties, I consistently filled my mother's ear with how lazy and selfish my younger sister was.  Being that I was her sister, I thought it gave me every right to make judgements on how my mother should raise, and respond to her. In the heart of my thinking, I felt I had every right because, I mean hey, I was her sister, and the only one who loved her as much as my mother did....

I was so wrong.

Its funny how, when we enter adulthood, we come with the mentality of a know-it-all, and nothing anyone else says, or does, can convince us different. Life has a way of circling back though.  It will push the reality of truly not knowing a thing about it, without experience, in your face with a vengeance.

In the kitchen, as I sat and listened to my son complain about his little brother, and tell me how we allow for him to take advantage of us, for a moment, I was my mother.... Hurt. Not from feeling taken advantage of, but from someone outside of me and my husband's two-parent arena, speaking poorly about our child. 

When it comes down to it; no matter what they do, your children will always hold a place in your heart few can only dream to touch.  There is love, indeed, to be shared with everyone, but the type of love for a child runs well past the one you have for sister or brother.  It is one which will have you risking hell and high water to see them provided for, and safe. One which can only be compared in a much smaller sense, to God's love for us. It never ends, it never fails, is long-suffering, and will never give up the hope that what has been invested will yield a great return.

That is how my mother sees my little sister, and hearing me say anything derogatory about her, pained her heart, just as it did mine when I listened to my older son in the kitchen last night. 

As a parent, I would love to teach my children, and have them learn about life the easy way.  I would love for them to take what my husband and I have to say from experience, then go out and make better choices as a result. But, what I've learned in living, is that there is no better teacher than life itself. It is only through experience we gain the 20/20 hindsight we all long to see. 

I've given up trying to make my children understand what it is to be a parent.  I will even have to take a backseat on trying to make them see what it means to be an adult. Those things will come eventually.  They will each have their day in the kitchen with their own sons or daughters.  The light will come on inside their heads, their hearts will ache for the sake of their seed, and their eyes will open to the words repeatedly preached to them by each of their parents. 

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Wow!  Thank you Mama.... You put up with stubborn old me. 

The Empty Glass is Overflowing

In constant process

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Of being poured out

And then again renewed

A circulation of rhythm

Always connected 

To a source that doesn't end

Never in danger

of lack in anything

No hollowed vacancy from

Any drought

Even while it is ever leaning

Continuously spilling all within

Just as soon as it is emptied

It is full yet again

The empty glass is overflowing

Refreshing everything in its path

And while it is yet

Ever still pouring

None have seen the bottom

Of the empty glass

When asked by those

Void to understand;

"How is it that you can

Pour so freely

All the contents you possess?

And not know our emptiness?'

The glass responds

"Well, its easy,

When I pour

I make more

Room to be filled up yet again,"

Perplexed the skeptics

Could not see

How this would work for them

And as if hearing 

The unasked question

The glass said, 

"No, it won't be the same

Not for you.

"Your containers, have been filled

Far too long.

The contents, they have staled

You held so tight

To what you had

It rusted out & failed

To give refreshment to anyone.

Yes, sadly even you

Because, anything you're given

Then hold back

Can never again

Be renewed."

Sinking

"When all around me is sinking sand, on Christ the Solid Rock I stand...." 

I look to my left and I'm stumbling 

I look to my right and I've been knocked back

I look down and I'm falling 

When I finally look up I see how far it is I've yet to go. 

The cycles of a hard life 

Up and down like a rollercoaster; 

Feeling unworthy to even feel 

What is there to grieve over 

When I'm still eating? 

Still healthy? 

Still clothed? 

Still fed? 

Still cared for? 

Still living? 

I battle it out every day 

With my own self 

Today, it is my worst enemy 

Last night I cried like a new born baby 

For what? 

I could not yet lay my finger on 

Not even to point at one particular reason 

There are many 

I don't often envision death: 

Understanding when hard times come 

When we are sinking through life 

Death, as an escape, is always a fleeting thought 

But, last night 

As I stared out of my window, 

Into the glow of the moon, 

Bouncing from waters 

Illuminating fountains 

That vision of loveliness 

Set to be taken in 

Its beauty absorbed 

Was not what I could see 

No, 

I saw a gun, 

Fully loaded 

Ready 

Pointed right at me

With the forefinger of my right hand 

Gripping the trigger 

It willfully pulled 

The rush of escape flooded all around me 

Fleeing in my last breath 

The tingle of freedom 

The moment of rescue from this 

This thing called life 

For a fraction of a minute 

I was okay with that 

A moment longer than fleeting 

Rested well with me 

But... 

Then a rush of pressure

Clamped down in my head 

The tears running freely down my cheeks

Alerted the sinuses within me 

They stood up & rebelled  

Tightening the ropes of revolt 

Against my nostrils 

Taking charge, and stealing away my air 

The pulse of my heart pounded 

An aching reminder 

Flowing through my system 

And into my eyes 

Reaching its destination 

At the center of my thoughts 

The throbbing wage of war 

Took full affect 

Convulsing through my limbs 

Taking over my body 

The song of battle stole my attention 

And I woke from my stupor of nothingness 

Suddenly reminded of my desire 

To catch hold of my breath 

I hurt.... 

But if death felt like this, 

I wanted no parts of it 

NO! 

I wanted to live! 

So, that's what I did

"When I need a shelter; when I need a friend, I go to The Rock." 

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21 Years

The number twenty-one. It is how long some studies show in days, that it takes to practice anything enough for it to become habit. An instant change in the way people conduct their daily lives can be wrapped up in less than a full month. 

Twenty-one years. I was that old when my father stepped back into my life on a more permanent basis. At first I struggled with believing he would stick around; but he did. And although we had a number of bumps along the way, he never left me alone. 

 I was gifted twenty-one more years with him before he left this world and entered the next. In April,on the second day of the month, at 2:00a.m., in the year 2019, at exactly one-half and one month of my life; me and my father's chapter of togetherness ended. God gave me time to say good-bye. It wasn't easy, but it was a gift. I was spared from the outcome of the shock in a sudden death of a parent. Still, although I had time to prepare, there was no clue in my head of how I would go about burying him. I just didn't know how to do it, let alone want to. 

In the years my father and I had consistently spent together, I had grown so close to him. His raspy voice, coarse from years of smoking, was also crowned in what could have easily been mistaken for a lion's roar. Yet it held for me a sense of security. I knew I could count on being his "little girl" who he wanted to protect from even the most darkest of days. He had become my hero; someone I believe every woman should have in her first example of how to be loved. 

Finally, I had received what was a never-ending search over a lifetime of disappointment. Oh how I miss my daddy. I fight myself not to grieve, trying and continually failing to be a strong tower. The question has always been.... "How can I miss him SO much when he didn't raise me?" Am I even worthy of the pain in my heart; the same held by those whose fathers had departed this earth as well, but had also raised them since birth?

 I've recently learned that, along with the many other acronyms, short hands, or message slangs, the number twenty-one means "to quit," as in done, or over. Maybe God knew I would get all I had been searching for in my life prior to, inside the span of twenty-one years. It certainly changed me, my outlook on life, men, relationships and the constant search for approval from others who were not my father. 

 I've learned to appreciate the man beyond his faults. The man who gave me his heart and sensitivity. The man who, despite never being grand in stature, carried himself like a mountain. The man who was so intelligent, he was the first in his family to be accepted into college, and excel there during a time when segregation & the country's biggest blot called racism, thrived in & through our legal system. The man who was so brave, he left college to fight on the very front line in infantry, combating against those set to kill him, while saving the lives of his fellow men at arms along the way. The man whose brave acts during war earned him the honors of the Bronze Star & Purple Heart. The man who gave love so freely, the outer core of his heart had to be fortified to keep it from breaking. 

 I would say I'm better now. As a person; as a woman. Under the divine orchestration of God, into the stretch of twenty-one years, I have finally found what I had been looking for. Thank you Daddy.