Changing Times

It was my lunch hour some weeks ago. The tiny restaurant was filled with hungry customers so I was relieved and surprised when I spotted an empty table near the entrance. I plopped my purse on the seat next to me and was just about to take a bite of a sizzling hot French fry when I saw my cellphone light up. 

It was my mom. 


"I just want to say that you are such a good daughter. You're always giving, you always show love, you care about others. You never gave me any trouble. I'm sure you're a good friend too."


It was an unexpected boost. I smiled as I soaked up her praise. But then, her voice tinged with concern, she said,

"I just don't want you to be alone."

I spent the latter part of the call reassuring her that my solo life will turn into a duet soon. But a part of me saddened when she said that. 


Whether she will admit to it or not, my mother has a very simple equation for a good life:

Happiness=Husband

I think a lot of women in her generation know that type of math by heart. 


My mother was born in the 1950s, an era where the minute there was a Mr. to your Mrs., you were set for life. 


In that time, a single woman in her late-twenties was as rare a sight as a unicorn galloping in Times Square. 


Which is why it's an enigma to her why a woman like me is still untaken.


Times have changed. 


For the large part, the need for marriage is gone but the want still remains.


So out of those that want it, there's a section of us who want to do it with God's help. 


Out of that population, there are some that have a not-so-minor prerequisite.


Out of that portion, there are some that have an additional requirement.


Such ratios don't make dating and finding a mate impossible.


But they do make it difficult. 


Not good news for eager and concerned mothers.


During another similar conversation, my mother mused, 

"I'll sure be glad when you bring home a beau." 

I laughed silently at her use of the dated term and thought, 


I'll be glad too, Mom. 

All That

Everyone has an unwritten (or secretly written) list of attributes, features, and assets that attract them to the opposite sex. 


Some men like women with long legs. 


Some women drool over men with goatees. 


Some men are driven by women with pixie haircuts. 


Some women are captivated by men who can croon and vocalize with the best of them.


For me?


 I think I'm pretty easy. 


I have no real preference. I've found myself attracted to men who range in height, education, complexion, weight, vocal talent, etc. 


But one thing that I find attractive is something that I can't compromise on. 


It's a nonnegotiable. 


A must-have.


A deal-breaker.

A relationship with Christ.

Someone who won't look confused when I ask him to pray for me.


Someone who places His will at the top of his daily To-Do list. 


Someone whose relationship with Christ is so important that he knows Him before he even meets me. 


Not a perfect Christian. Not a perfect man. But someone who has a real-life relationship with Jesus Christ. 


And because of this, I was told that I want too much. 

"You have to be willing to give chances."

"Men aren't as spiritual as we are." 

"As long as he believes in God, he should be all right. "

"You can't expect 'all that'."   

 The feedback was unexpected and dumped me into a sea of thoughts. 

Am I requesting too much?

Maybe because I'm not as familiar with relationships as they are, that's too much to ask. 

But if I'm doing "all that", why can't he?

I felt alone. 

Like I was swimming against the current. 

Going against the grain. 

Hiking up a hill while everyone else was sliding down. 

But after shedding a few tears and praying about it, I came away with a measure of resolve and assurance. 

I shouldn't apologize for desiring someone whose walk with God is in unison with mine. 

I can expect all that. 

And will. 

Strangers Again

It seems like love stories always happen the same way. 


Two strangers who...


by mutual friends...


mutual interests...


attend the same school...


work at the same place...


use the same gym...


eat at the same diner...


or just by chance...


meet and begin a conversation that leads into an encounter that trails into a relationship. 


But once the shiny pink paint is rubbed off and the burnt brown of rust begins to show, a relationship will go through changes and stages.


A friend of mine sent me this video that I feel does a superb job of illustrating this truth. 

My takeway from it:


It's what you do at certain stages that determines how it will end. 

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. 

Tied

Evelyn was quiet for a moment.

I could tell she was mentally digging into her past, brushing off old encounters. 

And I could see memories lining her eyes. 

I saw pain pad her cheeks.

And I felt the icy sick atmosphere of regret fill the room as she exhaled. 

"I'm telling you this because I've been there."

Her voice wasn't soaked with her normal sunshined wisdom. 

It was coated with solemn experience. 

"Sex is not as simple as people want to believe it is." 

In her younger days, Evelyn was far from loose. With candied yam colored skin and wide soulful eyes, she had no trouble getting attached.

But when it came to men, she was understandably discriminating. She didn't have dreams of cavalier casanovas or l'amour de la journée. 

She wanted longevity, permanence. 

Someone whose heart for God and His will would be identical to hers. 

So she dated. 

Entertained a select few here. 

Dined with a select few there. 

Yet none of them captivated her. 

Until he came. 

And she fell. 

Hard. 

His tenor timbre tickled and dripped down her fingertips. 

His rugged swagger warmed her belly. 

His company soothed her heart. 

His very being was like moonshine. 

Intoxicating her past the point where control was an option and concern was a choice. 

Her grip was lost.

And a willing spirit lay defeated. 

But all remained well until things went south. 

The man exited.

And Evelyn was single again...but not really. 

She explained, 

"Physical intimacy is not just physical. It took me years to get over him because I was literally still tied to him. I could feel him even if he was miles away. He could even feel when I was upset. 

That is why God didn't design us to do this carefreely. It was created with a lifelong bond in mind. 

Spirits become wrapped together.

Yours with his. His with yours."

My soul tied to another's. A knot that can't easily be undone. 


Another lesson that's making me think. 

Spoiler alert

When I was younger and would hear the story of how my parents met, I'd close my eyes and imagine myself watching how it all went down. 

I'd see my father walk into the department store, trying not to trip over his bellbottom pants. He picks out his Afro with the fist-handled pick and sticks his nametag on his shirt. As he heads to the cash register, he encounters a new employee, a cashier, on her first day of work. 

With a neat mini-fro and a dusky brown wrap dress, my mother introduces herself and flashes a shy smile. My father, the store manager, says hi and goes on about his way, noting to himself that the new girl has quite the pretty smile. 

I wondered what would happen if I went back in time, entered the store at that moment, and told them all that would happen. 

You two are going to fall in love!

You're going to propose to her in 7 years! 

You're going to have two children! 

There will be financial difficulties and in-law issues but you will be married for more than a quarter century!

I'm sure they'd look at me, look at each other, and deem me certifiable. 

But if  I told them how the story will go...

How it will progress...

How it will end...

If they knew all that, it might make things easier. 

Make nights more restful. 

Make days less stressful. 

Make their hearts more comfortable.

But...

If they knew all that, it would have messed up their faith walk. 

Such knowledge would have eliminated lessons that God wanted them learn. 

It would have ruined the story. 

There are days where I imagine my future daughter watching my story unfold. 

Is her father standing right before my eyes, and she's screaming at me to recognize him?

Is she blurting out spoilers?

Is she reading lines written in the script before they are even said? 

She probably is. 

But I have to be glad I can't hear her.

Trying to continue to trust Him

Wait

There are moments in my singleness where I start to wander and wonder...

About where he is and where He is...

About if I expect too much...

About what would happen if I throw caution/wisdom/knowledge/conviction out the window and settle for whatever I can get...

But after that, I always come to the same conclusion: 

It's best to wait. 

Last weekend, a friend sent this poem to me. This woman says it so much better than I ever could. 

Not saying that I want someone who can spit Scripture at a moment's notice ('cause I can't). 

Not saying that I'm the epitome of Proverbs 31 (I can't even sew).

But someone who understands that Christ doesn't come off like a coat you can't wear anymore? 

Someone who's running the same race I am and towards the same finish line I'm trying to get to?

Yes, I'll take that.

Thank You Lord for the Monday morning encouragement.

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.

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?

Mask

Recently, I met up with a good friend who I hadn't seen in a while. Over plates of crispy fried chicken and serenaded by a classic R & B mixtape, Beth filled me in on the parts of her life I missed: Weddings, births, school, the whole ball of wax. 


While I scrolled through her digital camera of captured moments, I paused at a picture of her nephew with his mother. She beamed as I marveled at how fast he grew. But when I asked about his mother's relationship with Beth's brother, she sighed. 

 "I think they moved too fast. By the time the baby came, he was trying to figure out if he even liked her at all. "

Strong words. 


True words. 


Sometimes, you can get so caught up with a pretty face and a seductive smile, thinking that such a person is going to be a tremendous addition to your heart. 


But though they look good...


though they smell good...


though they feel good...


when all that is gone, will I still like them? 


 Is there more to our relationship than what feels good to my senses?


Get clear eyes. Lust can be a consummate mask.

Change

Whatever they were talking about had to be good. I heard Amy's spirited alto and Bernard's stubborn tenor going back and forth like a game of tennis.  As I got closer to Bernard's desk, I heard, 

"It has to be a certain grade, a certain type."

He wasn't talking about meat. He wasn't talking about a car. He was talking about hair. 

"He doesn't date girls with natural hair," explained Amy, her voice coated in disbelief. 


"No, it's not that," Bernard countered quickly. "But if it's the dry coarse kind, then they have to straighten it." 


His statement made me think.


 I wondered how many gorgeous and wonderful women he passed over because their hair coiled too much. 


I wondered how many of his girlfriends had hot combed their kinks into flat strands.  


And I really wondered, 

How much of yourself should you

modify

alter

 change

 add

 subtract

  for someone else?

Physical appearance is inarguably one of the strongest factors in attraction. Both men and women savor pieces of eye candy that walk into their lines of sight. But I wonder how much of what we do to change our looks is for ourselves.


Is it more to catch eyes....?


Is it more to keep eyes....?  


Even our personalities can be affected by what our significant other thinks. Audacity is carved into meekness. Thoughtfulness is sharpened into selfishness. What's loud becomes soft. What's low becomes high. 

Soon, who you were is gone. 

Relationships can be catalysts for change. But sometimes, they can refashion a person into someone altogether new. 


Not better. 


Not worse. 


But different. 

Be sure that you can live with the difference. 


When the relationship is over, you'll still have to live with you.