It seems like everywhere I turn these days, the buzz word is “uncertainty.”We are uncertain of the economy, the housing market, the upcoming presidential election, the definitions of marriage and the list goes on and on and on.Admittedly, at times I am tempted to worry over everything the media is telling me could go wrong in my life.Beyond that, there are the traditional family stresses and woes that occasionally encroach upon the boundaries of what I like to consider as my usually stable mind.

I was nearing “Worry Stage One” the other night as I watched my latest television craze, Jon & Kate Plus 8.For those of you who aren’t familiar with it, this show is a reality series documenting the daily lives of a young couple raising twin 7-year-old girls and 4-year-old sextuplets.Talk about stress!
 
In last week’s episode, Collin, one of the little boys, recapped the adventures of his golf outing with his Dad and brothers.As he described how his father taught him to use the club, he said, “We hold the club and Daddy holds us.”For me, those words preached like a sermon.

In life, sometimes all you can do is what you know to do!The rest must be left at the throne of God’s grace.You can save diligently for your retirement and become the victim of an Enron.You can and should eat healthy foods and exercise, but in the end still fight the dreaded enemy called “cancer.” You can give all you have to your marriage and still experience the frustration of a husband turning to internet-porn.You must do all you can do, but after that you must have faith!Faith in God’s ability, willingness and determination to do what is absolutely best for you even when life’s circumstances contradict this assertion.

My paternal grandmother turned 85 years old on July 5^th.Sadly, her mind has been ravaged by Alzheimer’s and the only thing she waits for now is death as she calls out longingly for her loved ones who have long since passed away.However, when she was healthy, her mind was the prisoner of worry!

She worried about planes crashing, so she wouldn’t fly.She worried about dying in her sleep, so she feared sleeping alone.She worried about failure, so she very rarely took any risks.This weekend as I thought of her, I could not help but feel sadness and regret for the life she did not dare to live.In one of our last conversations, while she was still lucid, she expressed so much longing and regret for the things she never took the courage to do.
 

Living isn’t for the faint at heart. Existing merely takes breathing, but living…now that’s a different story. Frankly speaking, it isn’t always easy to get your stuff together and move on. In fact, sometimes it can feel like an insurmountable mountain of childhood issues, broken dreams and damaged relationships.
 
Growing up requires tons of acceptance, heaps of forgiveness and faith that all of your efforts are not in vain. For me, one of the hardest parts about it is questioning who I am right now. I struggle with the fact that sometimes I feel completely clueless about the one thing I should be an expert on and that is me!
 
Recently, I started reading Cure For the Common Life: Living In Your Sweet Spot by Max Lucado. The book is filled with various self exploration exercises designed to help readers find their sweet spot—the place where purpose, passions and gifts align. Normally, I read the books but I don’t always commit the time and discipline it takes to doing the exercises. Honestly, sometimes I don’t want to do the digging because I’m afraid of what I’ll find.
 
Well, this time, I want something different so I have made a commitment to doing all the heart and hard work. I sat down and started one of the exercises and as I thought about my life it dawned on me that my “happy” childhood was “happy,” but not as fulfilling as I once thought it to be. As I worked through the first exercise I realized that while my fairly strict upbringing had many benefits, I was forced to stifle parts of my nature in order to abide by some of my parents’ rules.
 
By nature, I love adventure and knowledge. (Not the bungee jumping kind of adventure but the thrill of learning a language simply because it is something new.)My iPod is filled with everything from Mozart and Beethoven to Dolly Parton, Celia Cruz and Fred Hammond. Something about all of these artists represents a part of me needing expression. In many ways, I don’t believe in playing it safe. I am always willing to forego the things I like because I know the thing I haven’t tried just might be something I could love. It doesn’t bother me that I never know whether I’ll love it or hate it, because I believe you never know what you’ll love, until you find out exactly what it is that you hate. It thrills me to travel to new and different places where I meet people who look and act nothing like me.(So you can imagine that it is a struggle being that lifeaholic, while at the same time being a woman who can be so self-conscious that I rarely dance at parties.)
 
In life, we can spend so much time doing what is expected of us or doing what others around us do that we lose sight of who it is we really are and what we really want. As I shared my recent self discovery with a friend, I found my best example in the cartoon movie Ice Age 2: The Meltdown.In the movie Ellie (voiced by Queen Latifah) is a mammoth raised by a family of possums. Because she loves her family and they love her, everything is fine…except for the fact that Ellie doesn’t realize she’s a mammoth. Because of this she hangs from trees, fears traveling in the daytime because a bird of prey might swoop down to kill her and does everything else possums do.
 
When Ellie meets Manny, a fellow mammoth, he confronts her with the truth—she is not who she thought she was. Rather than being a possum, she is a mammoth, a species she believes is on its way to extinction. Initially resistant, Ellie eventually accepts what she is. In doing so, she finally understands the reason why some things were the way they were. She understands why the boy possums didn’t find her attractive and why the trees keep breaking underneath her weight. Self-acceptance gave her the strength to appreciate her differences and to recognize her beauty.
 
I think many of us are like Ellie and we’ve been trying to figure out why some things just don’t work for us. I would venture to say some of the times it is because we don’t honor who we truly are in the way we live our lives. God made us for His glory and that glory can only be revealed as we answer the age old question, who am I…a possum or a mammoth?
 
For me, part of growing up is now about reawakening parts of me silenced in childhood and ignored in adulthood. It means going out to do the little things I always wanted to but was too afraid to try. It means risking the awkwardness that I so frequently shy away from and giving myself permission to look a little silly as I try the things of my childhood dreams.
 
Finding what we love and excites us and then taking the courage to pursue it will lead us to our sweet spot. The road there may not always be easy, but the joy we find in the sweet spot is worth every bit of effort!
 

What are little girls made of?
What are little girls made of?
Sugar and spice,
And all that’s nice;
That’s what little girls are made of.

There is something about that nursery rhyme that always managed to strike a chord of insecurity within me, even when I was a little girl.  Its sing-song rhythm annoyed me, but even more than that I hated the message that a proper little girl is sugar and spice.  I know I’ve always resented its implications, because deep within me, I have always known that I am simply not that girl!  I have always been a little spunky, with a quick wit that can border on a sharp tongue.  (The old folks used to call it fresh.)

As a little girl, this verse always managed to stir my feelings of inadequacy and guilt.  Guilt because more than craving being sweet—I wanted adventure!  I buried my nose in books about little girls who did the things I wanted to do.  I read Harriet The Spy so many times that at one point I could recite paragraphs from memory.  Forget the sugar; I preferred sneaking out the back door after dinner time to sit in the alleyway separating our backyard from our neighbors’.   In my childish imagination I was a spy gathering intel for the US government.

For years I struggled with feelings of “not measuring up” or fitting the mold of what a girl/woman should be.  I wish I could say that I always accepted my differences but like many young girls today it took me a long time to like myself.  Even now, I find myself criticizing parts of my body as if they were not a part of me.  I’ll be the first to admit that I need to shed a few pounds in the name of good health, but sometimes I find myself looking in the mirror wondering, who have I become? It can seem that with each pound I’ve gained, I’ve lost a little more of myself.   So sometimes, I stand in the mirror judging myself with the harshness of a stranger.  I criticize the legs that carry me from place to place and the arms that secure the hands that help me express myself when talking or writing.  It is almost as if the nursery rhyme is plaguing me again and once more saying, “You don’t measure up.”

Sometimes we can become so accustomed to the voice of our criticisms that we find the compliments of strangers and the appreciative praise of family and friends unbelievable.  Eventually our self-talk becomes our reality and our uniqueness, beauty and attributes become hidden treasure that we must dig for in order to feel good about who God made us to be. 

This weekend I went shopping and exposed myself to the emotional hazards of the three-way full length mirror!  By the end of my spree, I felt “blahsy” and ready to drown my sorrows in any high-fat treat I could find.  The unfortunate thing is that I’ve become so used to being down on my body that I didn’t even realize the tirade I’d subconsciously launched against it. 

I kept wondering what was wrong and couldn’t figure it out until I sat down to blog.  I realize that rather than criticizing my body, I should invest my time and energy into treating it like the temple Christ purposed it to be.  I don’t have to look like Laila Ali to be beautiful.  Perfection is not a prerequisite for self-love and respect.  I owe it to myself and to God to pursue healthy habits, but when I fall short of my goals…  it is up to me to give myself a little grace.  My beauty is not something that I should ever allow anyone else to define.   Maybe some little girls are made of sugar and spice, but the beauty of a real woman goes far beyond the surface.

Life doesn’t always work out the way we plan. I mean I’m one husband, a great career and three kids short of where I thought I would be at 36 years old. I’ve been silently hoping for my big break and so far it still hasn’t come. I’ve finally accepted the fact that my big break may never come!

Don’t get me wrong—I haven’t given up on my dreams. I’ve just adopted a new approach.  Rather than looking for the big break, I am committing to the long range effects of the disciplined chisel!  Like a sculptor who stands in front of a huge stone with just his hands and tools, I see my life as a masterpiece in the making. If I continue to chisel away at the different areas of my life, eventually a work of art will emerge.

Three years ago, my family and I traveled to various countries in Europe. On our stop in Italy, we were privileged to see Michelangelo’s David. Though I’d seen it in pictures, nothing prepared me for its magnificence. In Michelangelo’s human hands, marble took on life and expression.

For me, even more amazing than the David itself is the story of vision behind it. Michelangelo’s David was fashioned out of a block of used stone that two other sculptors had deemed unusable.  Rather than being daunted by the failures of others, Michelangelo put his chisel to work. Like all the others he could have given up in the face of the misshapen marble.  He could have been frustrated by its awkwardness and surrendered his vision to frustration.  BUT, instead, he integrated the “flaws” into his masterpiece.

As we analyze life’s obstacles and the messes we’ve made, we can feel tempted to give up. But before surrendering our passions to hopelessness, we sometimes need to step back and gain a new perspective.  The quick and fast doesn’t last, but greatness is the result of what we do with our ordinary days!  We can’t win the prize without surrendering to the process.

To commit to the chisel, means that rather than begrudging time—we maximize it. It is making a whole-hearted investment in our dreams, without attaching a time-line.  It is understanding that sometimes we can’t have exactly what we want, when we want it—but never closing our eyes to the full range of options that are available to us at any given time.

I am sure that as Michelangelo worked with the marble that would eventually become the world famous David, the two previous sculptors shook their heads and waited for him to realize the futility of his efforts.  For three years, Michelangelo pursued a vision that only he could see. But after years of hard work, his vision for the stone transformed it.  What was once discarded is now celebrated. It is a testament to what can be achieved when we harness time with an unwavering vision and a commitment to the chisel.  

The past two weeks have been a whirlwind. After several years of trying to get pregnant and an arduous IVF cycle, my sister was finally pregnant. But last Tuesday, they couldn’t find the baby’s heartbeat. As she navigates through her grief, I am trying to fill the spaces of what I know is heart wrenching pain. I am hopelessly inadequate in the face of this tragedy, yet I must somehow find a way to “be present” as she and my brother in-law attempt to reconstruct reality after their loss.

As my sister heals both emotionally and physically, I’ve been doing the little things that I hope will make life easier such as cooking, grocery shopping and just listening. I don’t know how but I’ve found the added hours for my daily two-hour commute to and from work, a full time job and being a part-time graduate student.

Because I love my family, I don’t mind these things. But to be honest, there is a new responsibility that I have acquired that is taking up too much of my time. I’ve become “The Enabler” for mutual friends and family. What do I mean by that? Well, if I had a dollar for every phone call I’ve received asking me if she is okay, then I would be able to take myself to dinner and a movie, which is no small thing in our present economy. Every day I’m asked, “What can I do? Is it okay if I call?” To these things I consistently reply, “Call and let them know you love them. They would love to hear from you.” Almost without fail, when I see or hear from the same people a few days later they still have not called. I can almost “see” the guilt in their voices as they tell me, “Oh, I meant to call her today” or my favorite, “I’ve just been trying to give her some space.” I am enabling them to feel as if they made an effort to reach out to them, when they really haven’t at all.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind taking the calls. I also know that the people who are calling me genuinely love and care about my sister. But I also know that sometimes that “space” they are trying to give her is more for them than it is for her. People don’t know how to “fix” this and because they can’t make it all pretty, they hide behind the appearance of respecting her grieving process.

Rather than risking the discomfort of stepping into her void, they stand on the perimeter and add to her pain by leaving her grappling with the loss and feelings of aloneness. I am a firm believer in and respecter of boundaries. I recognize the need for them, but there is a fine line between crossing someone’s boundary and taking the time out to let them know that in their darkest of hours, they are not alone. Yes, God is with them but He wants us to be there with them too! We don’t need to have the answers; we just need to let them know that we recognize their pain.

Tragedy is the proverbial “elephant in the room,” but I once heard someone say, “When there’s an elephant in the room, address them!” There are things that happen to us in life that forever change who we are and when others fail to acknowledge that pain and change, it can be experienced as a rejection of who we have become.

Some people want to be left alone when dealing with their pains, but a simple phone call lets them know that the aloneness they feel is a choice and if they choose to connect with you, you are waiting. Sometimes people we love fall through the spaces that we give them. God did not create us to live in vacuums, rather we were designed to grow and grieve in the comfort of community.

Christ said, “Love one another as I have loved you.” Sometimes the lame and sick flocked to him, but there were times when he went to the places of grief and sickness and called forth healing until it came. Like Jesus, we must learn to fill the spaces in others’ lives until healing comes!

Grief is a sticky issue, but when those we know and love are faced with it, our job is to help them get through any way that we can. Pick up the phone and call them directly. If you can, knock on the door and let them know you are there. Thirdly, listen and let them tell you when you can come in. If they refuse to open the door, set up your tent and camp out on their doorstep. In a few days time, knock again. The thing you fear most may happen—they might just let you in!

If you’d asked me 15 months ago what I’d be doing today, I would have boasted that I would be celebrating my grandfather’s 100th birthday. Even then, the plans were already in the works. But suddenly, he was sick and a week later, just 6 weeks shy of his 99th birthday, he was gone.

I know as you read this, the words suddenly in relationship to a 98 year old man dying seem strange. But then you’d have to know my Granddad Shine to know that he was full of life, wisdom, vitality, hope and expectancy. So much so that some small part of me was convinced that he had found the fountain of youth and would be around forever.

So today, instead of celebrating with my grandfather, mother, siblings, aunts, uncles and 200 plus cousins (includes first, second and third), I sit here alone, contemplating life. Life is an uncontrollable force that we spend our days attempting to tame with our PDAs, calendars and flowcharts. We check bus, train and plane schedules as if we can measure our lives by departure and arrival times. Often, we make it according to the plan. But then there are times, when things appear to be going right on schedule and then life happens.

Sometimes life happens in a good way, an unexpected invitation to a baseball game where you meet your future husband or a surprise call from an old friend about a job that would be perfect for you. But then there are times when we’re heading to the baseball game with tickets we’ve paid for and the car just won’t start. Sometimes we don’t get that perfect job.

For me, one day in February 2007, one of my best friends called me to her office and handed me the phone. On the other end of the line, the most reassuring voice in the world came over the line (yep, that would be my Mama) and told me that my Granddad was gone. So, I knew then that today there would be no party.

But today, despite my pain and the longing for my family, I celebrate. I celebrate the legacy I’ve been given. I celebrate the fact that after not writing for almost two years, I am actually blogging. I celebrate the fact that tomorrow I will participate in my first walk for charity. Even as I celebrate, I am laughing deep inside because I know I’m not ready for this walk. But like everything else, I’ll survive and when it is all said and done, I’ll be a better person for it.

I am comforted by the knowledge that even though I my plans changed, God is not surprised by the turn of events. Despite my boasting and planning, He always knew that I’d be celebrating my grandfather’s 100th birthday alone with my laptop and reruns of Bonanza. Yep, life just keeps happening…but even then, God happens all the same!

Blacks in America certainly have had issues with light skin versus dark skin over the decades (or should I says centuries). And I won’t even start on that age-old ‘good hair’ debate. But it seems that India and its caste system can take name calling to a whole new level. The Time of India is reporting that a woman named Syed Fathima, who was married for only two months, committed suicide when her husband called her “black”.

This case actually went to court where it was found that being called “black” was equivalent to mental torture. On her deathbed she declared that her husband didn’t like her because of her dark complexion. And do you want to know what her husband got for this heinous crime? Two years in jail. Makes you wonder about the world, doesn’t it?

But as a black woman living in America I can’t help but think about how long it took our people to get to black —journeying from that derogatory “n” word to colored before we embraced it as a compliment. Folks were walking around with t-shirts saying ‘black is beautiful’ and singing James Brown’s anthem, “Say it Loud, I’m Black and I’m Proud.” Then we wanted to be African American (sometimes with a hyphen, sometimes without) and being black didn’t seem to mean as much. Because as we were trying to distance ourselves from being black, we didn’t notice that it too had become a derogatory word used to harm people. I think we need to start proclaiming “black is beautiful,” again. Let’s not let a once beautiful word become ugly.

Man Gets 2 Years for Calling Wife “Black”