Who loves you more?

The worst kept secret in my 7th grade class was Jimmy's crush on Raquel. His infatuation with her was public knowledge, from the skinny buck-toothed class reject to our math and homeroom teacher. His cheeks would flush red whenever she'd speak to him. He'd spoil her with sodas and Crybabies from the corner store. A natural comedian, he would turn his talent on high to hear her laugh and see her smile. 

It was equally evident how his attraction to her was not exactly returned.

Raquel was beautiful. She knew it, Jimmy knew it, and the entire male body of our 7th and 8th grade classes knew it. But chubby Jimmy was only good enough to hang out with, take gifts from, and become distracted from the uselessness of middle school classwork. He wasn't considered worthy for entry in her circle of suitors. 

I remember watching Jimmy trail after Raquel, shamelessly fawning after someone who would never fully reciprocate his actions. 

And at 12, it seemed off to me. 

It still does at 26. 

But I hear that, in a way, that's how it should be. 

A friend of mine said, 

"In a relationship, the man should love the woman more than the woman loves the man. Women, we already love with all we have. So if our man loves us more than we do him, it will balance out."

True, men and women do love differently. 

But when you start to measure, what conversion chart do you use? 

Two of his "I love you's" equals 10 of mine?

Three of his kisses equals 5 of my hugs?

Nine of his hours spent helping me with my thesis equals 3 days of me taking care of him while he recovered from surgery?

Or is it 10 of his hours?

It's tricky talk when we begin to speak of love in matters of portion. 

Love is intangible and if it can be weighed, the scales don't exist.

 All in all, love is rarely what you say but always what you do. 

So make sure you're doing something. 

Hard

Something inside of me hardened. 


It's an odd feeling to get when someone is giving you advice. 


Yet it happened. 


I felt sadness fill my core. 


My mouth contorted in an attempt to stop the pending frown.


And something in me became solid and hard as steel. 


Usually, I welcome spoonfuls of guidance from those I trust. 


But I couldn't digest this dose.


I tried to swallow each letter. 


Each syllable. 


Each argument. 


But I vomited them all up immediately.


And I didn't understand why.


And it troubled me deeply.


So I went home. 


Sat on the steps. 


And thought. 


And prayed. 


And cried. 


Then it came to me. 

Maybe it's not digesting because it's not supposed to. 

I hardened for a reason.

Hardened so that the pounding of her words against my heart wasn't enough to break through. 

Hardened so that it would obliterate the precarious logic behind her reasoning. 

Hardened so that the truth encased within me wouldn't be tainted. 

People can be sincere in their advice. 

And they can be sincerely wrong. 

Weak

In my grandmother's library, there was a book of Bible stories that I loved to read. The stories were short, making it easy for my 9-year-old self to understand. But what I liked the most about the book were the illustrations. 


There was one in particular that I remember, a picture that depicted the story of Samson and Delilah. In this drawing, Delilah was a knockout. Shiny ebony locks that cascaded down her shoulders, pouty red lips, and kohl rimmed eyelids.  She wore a dreamy, almost seductive expression as she looked at Samson, who seemed to be completely charmed by this woman.


I was talking to my life coach this week, and she introduced a thought to me that never crossed my mind. 


She heard a pastor once say that,  

"Whoever said that Delilah was beautiful? Her appearance isn't spoken of anywhere in the story. Her most notable feature is her ability to extract the secret of Samson's strength.  And how was she able to do it? She provided a place of solace and comfort, a place for him to lay his head." 

What a concept. 

Samson, after a day of leading Israel and fighting their enemies, recovers and rests in Delilah's arms and lap. She gently massages his scalp and smooths his curls around her index finger while cooing soft words of comfort and peace.  

I had always envisioned Delilah as this ridiculously gorgeous femme fatale, a Halle Berry twin with a body so curvaceous that all she had to do was whisper a request, and it would be done in 3 seconds flat. 

But the idea, not that she might have been an average looking gal, but that it was her disposition, her aura, and her personality that was so soothing that it made the strongest man in the world give up his might....

There is a lesson I can take from that (minus Delilah's terrible betrayal). 


I want to be a place where my love can rest easy...


be secure....


breathe deeply....


and not have his trust interrupted.


A place where he can become weak and know his power is safe with me. 

There's still time

The cry came suddenly. 


A cry that turned into untamed, pain-filled sobs. 


The sobbing soon became the loudest sound in the church, completely outdoing the soft playing gospel music. I, along with everyone else seated in the wooden pews, fell silent and agonized with her. Each moan of her sorrow cut to our hearts and caused our vision to blur. 


I watched Amy as she made her way to the casket to look at her father for the final time. I heard her sniff and softly weep as she gazed. 


It was such a sad scene to view so I closed my eyes to pray... 


And think...


About my own father...

I wonder how much longer he will be on this earth? 

Do I spend enough time with him? 

Does he really know how much I love him? 

About my family... 

When was the last time I told my mother how much she means to me? 

I don't think my sister knows how much I care about her. 

My aunt is such a good woman. I don't think I've ever told her that. 

About my friends... 

Naomi is always so supportive. I really appreciate her. 

Dylan is a wonderful friend. He's always checking on me. 

Chrysanthemum truly is my best friend. I don't know what I'd do without her. 

I don't want to say accolades that can no longer be heard. 

Or buy gifts that can't be enjoyed.

Or give love that can't be felt.  

I don't want anything to be left unsaid when it's time to say any final goodbyes. 

So I'm deciding to say everything, to do everything now

While there's still time.

Great Expectations

This feels heavier than faith. 

Thicker than hope. 

Firmer than belief. 

I'm reclining on air with my feet crossed at the ankles, my hair nestled in the palms of my hands.

I'm jumping double dutch on the ocean while wearing chrome stilettos that grip the water like cement. 

I'm cartwheeling on quicksand without sinking. 

Without any fear of sinking. 

It's more than faith. 

Closer to certainty.

For the past sixteen days, I've been listening to the rhythm of assurance that beats within me. 

It's an inexplicable melody that only I can hear... for now. 

I look to heaven in amazement.

Excitement.

Gratefulness.

This year, I'm expecting something great. 

____________________________________________________________

..."for You answer our prayers..."

-Psalm 65:2

Incomplete

Even though it was Sunday, it didn't feel like it. 


The afternoon sky was painted a milky gray. Thousands of fat raindrops plopped onto flimsy umbrellas and streamed down Evan's car windows as he drove down the wet street. 


"Maybe I'm going through a quarter life crisis," he said. "There are so many things that I thought would be different."


I nodded in total agreement. I began to air out my own qualms about my life. But the inability to articulate my frustration made me speechless for a second or two as I searched for the right words.


But Evan filled them in, saying, 

"You just know you're not where you thought you'd be." 

I'm absolutely not where I thought I'd be. 


I step outside myself and gaze at my comings and goings at this moment in time with my lips parted, my brow wrinkled and my eyes widened, all in disbelief. 


This portrait of my life appears incomplete. 


There are dark spots of ink there that I wish I hadn't spilled.


White spaces that need to be filled.


Scenery that I wasn't expecting. 


A missing face that needs to be penciled and colored in. 


I'm absolutely not where I thought I'd be. 

But I'm exactly where God wants me to be.


I don't hold the paintbrush. He does. And He knows exactly what to do with it. 


He will add just the right color. 


Sketch in the flawless visage. 


Blend the ink blots expertly into the rest of the image.  


All at the right time. 


There are times when I look at the picture as it is now and frown. 


Yell. 


Scream. 


Cry. 


But then I think if the painting was up to me, would it be as beautiful as it will be when Jesus is finished with it? 


Absolutely not. 


I won't be incomplete forever. 
__________________________________
Now we see things imperfectly as in a cloudy mirror, but then we will see everything with perfect clarity. All that I know now is partial and incomplete, but then I will know everything completely, just as God now knows me completely.
-I Corinthians 13:12

The bitter, the sweet

Growing up, I hated my daily dose of cod liver oil.


I would frown as I watch my father pour the liquid. The thick soup would pool and glisten as it sat in the spoon.... 


...waiting to torture my tastebuds. 


The fishy smell, the aspiriny taste, the slimy gooey texture coated my tongue and made me gag. 


Afterwards, I'd always have to kill the aftertaste. 


A mug of fruit punch.


A couple of bites from a chocolate bar. 


A handful of mini-Twizzlers. 


The sweetness would soak my mouth and make me forget about the past nastiness. 


This week was like that. 


At the beginning of the seven days, a moment in a slice of a minute bothered me.


Bothered me to a point where it shifted my mood. My usual placid self felt stretched. 


My mind became a jungle of threads, each thought a different colored cord that curled and tangled. 


That night, I opened my mouth to pray but couldn't say a word. 


I didn't know what to say. 


I just knew the heavy sick unsure feeling that I was sitting in.


Yet it's so amazing how God answers those prayers you never even speak. 


In the center of the week, a good friend poured some things into me that truly caused a lift. 


Sprinkles of sugar crystals

"You're beautiful."

Pearls of caramel and chocolate. 

"You're cool and comfortable."

A dollop of buttercream frosting. 

"And I mean it."

His words made me smile and marvel at how God could know exactly what I needed.

BFF (Part 2)

The sunlight stung my eyes as I gazed off in the distance, hoping to see Ebony's car. 

She's coming. 

We haven't seen each other in a while so she has to come. 

We can never seem to meet up anymore. 

I hope we can become close again.

I hope she's coming. 

Ebony had been my best friend for the past two years. Our friendship was intense. During that time, we leaned on and stuck with each other through much turmoil.

Cheating boyfriends. 

Hospital emergency rooms. 

Failed midterm exams. 

Divorce.  

But, through one event, we were peeled away from each other. It was just for a little while, and I thought we could easily pick up where we left off. 

But when a season ends, there is nothing to pick up. 

In every relationship, in every friendship, people grow and mature and change. 

New interests are developed. 

Perspectives are broadened. 

Backbones are strengthened. 

Sharp tongues are made tender. 

And sometimes that old friendship becomes too small, too big, too too for the new you. 

Maybe that's why God escorts friends in and out of our lives by durations. A person placed in your space to enrich and enhance your life but for a period of time.

Some for a lifetime. 

Some for a half-decade. 

A few friendships are made to last while others are meant to survive for a moment. 

The more I waited though, the more I realized that my moment with Ebony was ending. 

I rocked back and forth on my toes, curling my upper lip to block the pending tears. 

And it worked...until my phone rang. 

"Can't make it....Sorry, maybe another time."

Another time never came.

Lava Lamp

My friend Amy let out a soft sigh as she swallowed her last spoonful of chicken noodle soup. We were eating lunch on a patio, leisurely sharing updates on our lives. It was Amy's turn at the mic, and she had just finished vocalizing a new development with a former boyfriend. 

She plopped her now empty spoon on the table and said,

"I hate him." 

"No, you don't." I soothed. "You hate the situation."

Amy closed her eyes for a moment and let her lips curl into a frown. "I hate this feeling."

I hate it, too.  

That tremble you feel when what was in harmony is now in discord. 

When desires...

....and fears....

...and emotion...

....melt from a solid foundation and ooze down our throats to bob.......up

                                                                                         .....and down.....

like a lava lamp. 

Elements of yourself floating back and forth in different directions...

...and in separate paths...

...but never together. 

B'day

I tend to get pensive around this time of year. 


My birthday.


The change in age makes me think...


praise...


wonder...


anticipate...


reflect...


In the 9,499 days since I've been living, I 

...survived a death sentence predicted at birth.

....created a clothing catalog made up of designs modeled by Betty and Veronica

....began a lifelong love affair with a not-so-secret vice.

....sprayed myself with mace.

....learned the essential arts of tongue rolling, gum popping, and eyebrow arching. 

....became a new creature like this.

....skipped class.

....held a guy's hand.

....got the hang of stepping. 

...found out what grown-ups do all day.

...contributed to a 401K.

...made friends.

...helped friends.

...lost friends.

...buried friends.

...had my heart crushed.

...had my heart warmed.

...gave birth to dreams.

....suffocated fears. 

...made others proud.

...made myself proud.

...learned to love myself...

fancy myself

adore myself

cherish myself. 

I read over the past 9,499 life pages with no regret. 


Looking forward with faith and no fear. 

BFF (Part 1)

It was happening again.

To my right stood Wanda, loudly voicing her displeasure, her nape length ponytail wagging with every word. To my left was Charlotte. Her jelly bean-colored barrettes were clamped over her braids and were as frozen as the frown on her face.

And in the middle was me, trying to figure out how not to take sides…again.

At 9 years old, I was getting my first taste of a relationship where one rules over all, a dysfunctional friendship.

The three of us enjoyed being together. Playing jump rope on the playground. Eating Ellio’s frozen pizza in the school cafeteria. Talking excitedly about the newest toys in the Toys “R” Us Sunday circular.

But eventually, there were times when one of us would do something that would completely disrupt the peace.

Wanda’s peace. 

Maybe we didn’t see Michael Jackson’s latest video. Maybe we had spearmint lip balm while she had cherry. Maybe it was because we didn’t wait for her after lunch. Maybe we liked Pepsi instead of Dr. Pepper.

Whatever the reason, Wanda would complain and usually Charlotte would counter back, resulting in a rip in our friendship blanket.

I would try not to take sides…but I would always end up taking hers.

During recess, I’d walk along the length of the playground with Wanda, half-listening as she complained about Charlotte’s latest act of insubordination. I’d scan the concrete for Charlotte and would finally spot her, playing happily, oblivious to the invisible friction that was rubbing me raw.

But then, as Charlotte probably figured, Wanda got over it. The rip was mended and all was well again.

Until next time.

We were 9-year-old girls who eventually grew into 20-something women and outgrew such things.

But thinking back made me wonder:

What type of friendship can survive when one friend is being held hostage?

Where one friend can’t be free?

A muzzle when you speak?

Pushing your actions through a sieve?

Filtering your desires and your fears?

How can something so essential as being bare, being yourself before a friend launch an assault of insults?

A refusal of attention?

The disintegration of a friendship?

Or was it a friendship to begin with?

Throwing stones

It's painful to watch.

Hurts to listen to.

Troubling to read.

Smooth gray pebbles of verdicts. 

Crumbly mud balls filled with disdain.

Jagged caustic boulders thrown...

hurled...

tossed.....

targeted...

at her. 

There are many sides, perspectives, and truths to the Fantasia Barrino situation, facets that are unknown to most. But the lack of complete knowledge hasn't stopped people from making absolute judgments and statements about everything involving her.  

Her lack of morals.

Her talent.

Her beauty. 

Herself. 

It's so easy for us to gather up stones to punish someone who has, publicly or privately, fallen short. 

But the truth is we all have. 

Leave the rocks on the ground where they belong. 
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"If you judge people, you have no time to love them."
- Mother Teresa