That simple, yet dangerous, prayer led me to begin again. God soon filled my heart with a new vision: to become a professor and to use the professorial platform to speak and write about issues of race and Christianity.
Never an empty soul
Because he made it so.
In due time, I stepped back into my childhood church and that very day was introduced to a man that would go on to be my surrogate father and officiate over my wedding. This man would connect the dots from my heart to God’s and remind me that my ransom was paid in blood so greatly was I loved. I would come to understand that my value wasn’t tied to a scale and more importantly that there was a place for me in the Kingdom.
Husband and I lay, backs on the bed staring at the ceiling, no kids at home. Finally, time alone. How would we spend this time? Would it be as all the times before? Pretending we weren’t hurt? Hovering surface level?
In my tribe, I’m the left leaning, Jesus loving, tree hugging hippy-who-wears-a-bra, poet against systemic oppression friend. I stick out in my tribe but come hell or high-water, I can always run to and run for the fab three: Lonna, Kathleen, and Arlene.
And while I wait to be released from my own struggles, Still Waiting drives hope into my life. It takes me by the hand and says, me too. This is what it is to wait well.
These things mark a fresh willingness to seek out new beginnings. They are proof of an understanding that it’s not too late to change, to rediscover truth, to try something new.
We need to get to the place where we can walk uncharted waters without the voice in our heads spreading doubt and confusion.