You, my brothers, were called to be free. But do not use your freedom to indulge the sinful nature; rather, serve one another in love.
Galatians 5:13 (NIV)
I was reminded today that I am a warrior. (thank you, MDC for love, for prayer, and for a swift kick to the spirit). Today we report on the progress of our God-sized Dreams, and what we’re doing to move them forward. First, I had to get out of my own way. Many of my very wise sisters spoke truth, that fear, spoken in that ugly, whispering voice of the enemy, dared us to move. Who are you to dream? Who are you to write?
|I write because words come out. |
My Father in Heaven
puts them in me and they have
to make their way into the world.
I write because the words come out. I believe that my Father in Heaven puts them in me and they have to make their way into the world. If I want to be a writer, then I must write. If I have opportunities to put my words out there, then I must take them.
So I did. In December, I received an offer to write for Dialect Magazine. My pitch was to put a faith lens on things of the world…the way I see things. I made my first submission, a commentary on Trayvon Martin, something I wrote nearly a year ago, today. It’s out there. I have left the comfortable cocoon of anonymity I’ve carefully cultivated in the world. I have come out.
It might get published. It might not, but I have taken the step. And now I’m seeking out new paths. I’m not listening to the ugly whispering voice, because I declare that it has no power over me. I am called, not by nasty whispers, but by my Father to be free. And those called to be free are called to serve. And here is what I’ve learned in faith…He does not call the equipped, He equips the called. So, if His is the Voice in my ear, I must know that it’s going to be alright. And I must remember that the whisperer, the trickster, is lying again. It is what he does. But I’m not listening. I am only listening to the words in my head, the ones that need to make their way out. There they go again…
A time for every purpose under heaven:
A time to be born,
And a time to die;
A time to plant,
And a time to pluck what is planted;
A time to kill,
And a time to heal;
A time to break down,
And a time to build up;
A time to weep,
And a time to laugh;
A time to mourn,
And a time to dance;
It's been nearly a year since the senseless death of a young black man, Trayvon Martin. Even now, I think both of where we are as a nation on the issues of the Second Amendment, 26 senseless gun murders in Connecticut later, we still haven't settled that matter, and whether we have entered a post-racial society. Finally, the most piercing pain for me is that of mother of a young black man in America. I never thought, in birthing a son I'd be giving birth to a gravely endangered species....
Sabrina, I cannot imagine your pain at sending a son to eternal rest; saying goodbye rather than saying goodnight. I cannot fathom the hole in your heart, but this I know; “to everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under heaven…a time to be born and a time to die,”… this cannot be that time.
I too held a brown boy under my heart, carrying him as part of me until the day he came to the world. It was a time to weep, and a time to laugh. A time of great promise in America where I never imagined that being mother to a young black man meant I had given life to a gravely endangered species. This cannot be that time.
We give our sons both roots and wings, holding our breath as they learn to fly. I’m sure you never expected Trayvon to take wing for the heavens so soon. There is a time to plant, and a time to pluck what is planted. Trayvon was yet so green. It was not his time.
My son stood between his father, sister, and I in Washington, DC to hear a President who looked like him take the Oath of Inauguration in 2008. That year, the Children’s Defense Fund reported a firearm death rate for black boys ages 15 to 19 more than four times higher than for comparable Whites. What time is this?
It is said that love, endless and relentless, redeems all wrong. Just how much time does that take? All I can do in tribute to the memory of your young prince is pledge my voice to the cause of Justice; offer my prayers to you and those that mourn; and assert that though there is a time to mourn, a time to dance will come.
To everything there is a season. I know, even in my despair, that even this season will not last .