A Right to the Divine

I don’t believe God cares whom we love as long as we remain open to the possibility of love. No matter how hard I try to understand the Fundamentalists who preach that God hates homosexuals, I can’t help but hear the fear and ignorance beneath their loud diatribes. Yes, I am familiar with Leviticus 18:22 and 20:13 but I am also familiar with all of the other scriptures that speak against the other sins: judgment, gossiping, overeating, coveting, fornication and adultery. Sin, in all forms, displeases God so who are we to choose which ones are the greatest offenders.

There are some things I don’t understand, but is it really my responsibility to try to understand? Shouldn’t I just accept that God’s ways are not like man’s ways and that when I die and meet my Maker He will explain it all to me?

Recently I had to remind a friend that we all have a right to the sacred and to the divine. Too many churches kick people out under the premise that because they are different in some way they don’t have the right to God. That’s bull because our Creator loves all of His creations and wants us to be in intimate relationship with Him in spite of our imperfections.

So I believe our job is to get to God any way we can. To lay ourselves low at His feet in worship and pray that we learn to look at the world and all of it’s people through His eyes and not our own. Because when we look at people through our own very human eyes we see only their imperfections. We focus on every blemish and every wrinkle and forget to see the divinity in every man and woman.

Perhaps Lady Gaga was right when she said “I was born this way” or maybe she is incredibly deluded. I don’t know. All I know is that I’ve been given only two tasks: to love God and all of His creation.

Carrying the Cross

There has always been something about the Bible verse Mark 15:21 that has bothered me. The story goes that "a certain man from Cyrene, Simon, the father of Alexander and Rufus, was passing by on his way in from the country and they forced him to carry the cross..." In my minds eye I can see this lean muscled, tall, dark skinned man moving forward to shift his weight beneath the heavy cross as Jesus lay exhausted on the ground. Perhaps their eyes met. Maybe they didn't, but it really doesn't matter because the exchange happened and Simon stepped forward struggling beneath the weight and Jesus was forced up, moving towards his death.

A quick Google search reveals that Cyrene was once located in North Africa, so it seems that this man Simon was a long way from home. Here he was passing by on his was from the country and he was picked from the crowd for this difficult task. I can only imagine how upset he was to be singled out of the crowd and forced to take the journey of an accused man. He was probably thinking: "Here I was minding my own business, why did they have to choose me?" He may have even felt that he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. "Maybe I should have stayed in the country longer," he might have said to himself. Perhaps he was wondering what people would think when they saw him walking with the cross on his back. Surely they believed he was the accused!

Maybe I'm reading too much into this story, but every time I hear it I can't help but think that it was not coincidental that it was a black man that was forced to carry the cross. Could it be possible that black skinned men all over the world have been asked to carry a symbolic cross? History tells us that men of color have carried a heavy burden. Have they been selected, not as a form of punishment, but as a promise?

Later in Romans 16:13 the Bible says, "Greet Rufus, chosen in the Lord, and his mother, who has been a mother to me, too."  If I'm reading this correctly, Simon's wife and one of his sons was later a mother to Paul, the writer of Romans, and played an important role in Christianity. Is it possible that if these men- much like Simon-who have been asked to pick up a cross that is not theirs to bear would just shoulder the weight they will be blessed for it?

Although no one asked "will you help me carry the cross?" the request was always there. But so was the promise: If you share my pain now, I promise to take care of yours later.

Chocolate

It’s hard for me to sit here and watch perfectly good chocolate going to waste. I see it in her hands and I can tell that she doesn’t know how to handle its complicated flavors and I want to snatch it away, but then again I have my own. What bothers me is the look in her eyes as she gobbles it down and then looks around for the next thing to consume. I can tell by her greedy eyes that she doesn’t really like chocolate all that much. She’s just eating it because it was wrapped in a pretty package and there’s the promise of a golden ticket inside like in Willy Wonka. I imagine the chocolate is trying to catch my eye “Would you know how to treat me right?” I feel it thinking but I look away because who am I to have this conversation with?

Maybe I’ve misread the situation and she truly is a connoisseur. Maybe, like me, she enjoys the way it feels when you first hold it in your hands or the way the first bite, like the first kiss, is always full of such sweetness. The sweetness never cloying but just right. And there’s always just a hint of something that keeps you wanting more. Oh and the smell! There’s nothing else like it. You could be surrounded by every sweet temptation imaginable, but once you realize it’s in the room getting some is all you can think about.

But it doesn’t matter. She has it and for the moment she seems to be enjoying it. I just hope she realizes how special it is.

Eating My Broccoli

     I don't like broccoli. As a matter of fact I never had, yet I know it's good for me. Even as a child my mom could never get me to eat broccoli, cauliflower, brussel sprouts or spinach and the older I get the less appealing these vegetables are; yet, I realize that I have to eat them no matter  how bad they may taste. It's not that I don't like vegetables, because I like the ones that aren't green  but its the green ones that will keep me strong.

            Who wouldn't rather  have oatmeal chocolate chip cookies or fresh bread straight out of the oven?  But there’s a price to pay for bread and cookies that taste good now, but lead to low energy, diabetes or jeans that the whole family has to help me get into. The bottom line is that broccoli may not taste good now, but it has benefits that will continue to pay off in all the days to come.

            It's interesting though because broccoli shows up in my life in different ways. Sometimes it's the conversation I don't want to have but I need to because its the only way I'm going to bring about change. Other times the "broccoli" is a relationship that I am enjoying but I know is no good for me. The person, although nice, is draining me and will eventually deplete me if I'm not careful.

            I've not worked out with my personal trainer in six months since starting my new job and after gaining 10 lbs and catching the flu twice I realized that I needed to do what was best for me and not what I wanted to do. The other day I met with my personal trainer Danny and I swear that there were times when I saw a stalk of broccoli where his head should have been. I hated every plank, push up, and kettle bell swing he ordered me to do, but in the long run I know it's going to pay off.

            I've also gone back to drinking my Green Energy Smoothie every morning. Thankfully it doesn't contain broccoli, but it does have  spinach, celery, carrots, mint, oranges, apples, lemons, limes, and  cucumbers. It's not a Krispy Kreme donut, but its not completely disgusting either. Like my daughter Lyndsay says, "it's a toss up between grass and dirt." Nevertheless, in the long run its good for me so I hold my breath and drink it down.

            I know I would be a lot healthier and happier if I just did what I was supposed to do and not what I want to do, so here I go. It's not about Resolutions or feeling guilty about previous bad choices I've made (food, relationships, exercising). Rather, it's about being conscious about what I'm doing. I really do know what's best for me and when I take the time to think about it I tend to not get caught up and I make better choices, so please pass the broccoli. 

It's Hard Out Here For a Pimp and a Writer Too

     There's a Grammy winning song by Three 6 Mafia called It's Hard Out Here for a Pimp that I'm about to make my theme song. Although the lyrics are about a man trying to get his hustle on at the expense of the women working for him, I'm beginning to see how the lyrics can apply to most of the people I know in this Game. It seems nowadays everyone has a hustle and they're trying to find a way to get over on the next person.
     Lately I've felt like a bit of a pimp myself. Thankfully I don't have a stable I have to take care of. I'm responsible for only one, and as an author I'm constantly having to pimp myself. Every now and then I have to hike up my skirt and parade across social media because that's what new authors are supposed to do. I hate it because I'm a private person by nature. I would rather exchange meaningful dialogue over cups of tea instead of  Tweets. I'm not a Twitch or a Twigger and I honestly have more to say than what can be condensed to 140 characters or less. Don't get me started on Facebook. Every time I type a status update I feel like I just got naked in a back alley.
    According to Pimpology: The 48 Laws of the Game by Pimpin' Ken, all pimps must Get a Name in the Game, so I do what I have to do even though it's not natural to me. I write, I edit, I push send. Another of Pimpin' Ken's rules is that Pimpin' is What You Do, Not Who You Are so I guess, maybe, I need to just grin and bare it.
     It really helps to think I'm the pimp, but honestly I'm probably not. When I think about how most new authors like myself are treated, I realize that we're getting played. We hustle all day and all night and then turn over most of our money to the man (or woman) in the suit. It doesn't really feel like prostitution as it's happening, but afterwards you realize you just got screwed.
    Earlier today I spoke with a very successful writer friend of mine. Thankfully he talked me off the ledge and reminded me that in this business no one is going to take care of me better than me. I've watched enough movies to know that once the pimpin' begins the friendship ends so I need to be about my business.
   So I'm waxing off the Caddy and putting on the flashy suit and the big hat with the feather. I'm selling me. I promise, though, if you look closely enough you will see that behind the pimp facade is a shy writer who only wants to share her stories.

Holding On Too Long

     When I look back at my life, I see that I have a history of holding on too long. Normally I wouldn’t say this was a bad trait because it has actually served me well in many aspects of my life. For example, in my teaching career, there have been students who were struggling with the lessons and with life. I knew that I should just give them the failing grade they earned and move on, but something inside of me wouldn’t allow that, so I kept at them until they saw their own potential. Each time I see a former student and he or she says "thank you Dr. Thompson for believing in me" I realize that I did the right thing. 

     In my own academic career I have been extremely persistent.  When I was in graduate school, there was this one professor who said I was a pit bull because once I bit into something I wouldn’t let go. I've always  wanted to go a little farther and push a little harder until I could see progress. Maybe that’s why I’ve started marathon training. I like to push the limits and since there are no mountains in Florida I have to run. 
     While running last Saturday, my friend Natalie and I were on mile 11 and it was cold and dark and we were both ready to quit, but I reminded her that at that point it was all mental because our bodies had already proven that we could run long distances, we just needed to focus and push a little more to make it to the finish line. 

     Anyone married for as long as my husband Lynn and I knows that there are times when you want to quit but you realize that it would be best for everyone to try a little harder for a little longer because you don’t want to give up on what could have been.

     But as I watch the last of 2012 slip through my fingers, I know that there are some things I need to let go of. There is this one business relationship that I have held on to for far too long. I’ve listened to the empty promises and the flat out lies and I've kept hoping that things would get better. They haven’t, so it’s time to say goodbye. There are also some vampires who suck up all my time with their trifles. It’s time for me to begin guarding my time the same way I guard my energy.

     I promise not to give up on my students and others who I see have the potential for greatness and I’m sure as hell not going to give up on my own hopes and dreams, but I am going to begin charging a higher admission into my life. I am also going to do what my writer friend Karen suggested when she paraphrased Ronald Reagan “believe, but verify!” When a person makes a promise I’m going to believe them only until I can find out if what they're saying is true and if I discover it’s not I’m going to move on.  No more waiting around for them to try to make it right.

     So here it is December 2012 and I am releasing it all. I have no idea what God is about to do, but I am ready because I am no longer clutching tightly to things that should have been released a long time ago.

Roy's Miracle

Recently I was invited by my friend Sheila to speak at her husband Roy's graduation." Roy's the only graduate and it'll just be a small group of family and friends," she said.  "I know it's not what you're used to, but it would really mean a lot to us." I was already over scheduled, but everything else would have to wait because it's not everyday that I get to witness a miracle.

It all began in the late 1950s when Roy was unable to obtain his high school diploma. Growing up in the rural south in the late 1950s taught African Americans many life lessons, but the lessons Roy had to learn were bitterly hard. He fled his home at a young age in order to seek a better life, and a better life he did find. One that included a wife, Sheila, who loved and supported him, seven beautiful children, and more family and friends than he could have ever imagined. Although he knew that God had protected him and blessed him all of these years, there was still something missing:  his high school diploma.

Over forty years later Sheila began to make his dreams come true. Together they found an online program that would allow him to earn an actual high school diploma and not a GED. In the evenings after work, he would study and his entire family encouraged him during those times when he thought he could not go on.

It was only at the end of this story that I entered the picture and I played such a small part, but it touched me in a big way. I got to see first hand what faith, love and courage were all about.

Before the ceremony Roy was insistent that we practice, so I slowly donned my full academic regalia and waited for instructions. Sheila pressed a button and Pomp and Circumstance played from mini-speakers connected to her phone. Before marching around the small room, Roy said apologetically "I know you've done this a million times before." I listened to him and smiled and followed Sheila who had assumed the role of Commencement Marshal. In my peripheral vision I saw Roy wiping tears from his eyes as he took it all on.

Later when I got up to speak I was able to look into the faces of those who came to share this moment with Roy and Sheila and I saw how proud they were of him, but more importantly I saw how proud he was of himself. Not only was he about to receive his diploma forty-plus years after he should have received it; he was graduating with honors (he had earned a 3.6 grade point average)!

I work on a university campus and take for granted the degrees on my wall and the cap and gown that I have to wear twice a year during commencement. I barely even remember my own graduations-and I did it three times for three different degrees, but Roy's ceremony will stay with me forever as a cherished memory. I was humbled because I've taken my own experiences for granted and had failed to pay attention to how important every achievement was. Roy had accomplished something amazing and I wanted to pay attention this time. I wanted to honor him for never giving up on himself even when others had written him off. I wanted to bear witness to the love that Sheila had that made her put everything else on hold to help him achieve his dream, and  I wanted to acknowledge that something amazing had taken place.

After I spoke I sat down trying hard to fight back the tears. Then Sheila got up, this time as a devoted wife and not the person in charge, and showed the audience the class ring that she was able to design after learning that the high school Roy would have graduated from had closed many years ago and she explained the significance of the color of his cap and gown. A benediction was given and the ceremony was over.

But Roy's life was just beginning. He had achieved the one thing he wanted more than anything else and it was miraculous!