Fall: The Beauty of Death

 

Fall has always been my favorite time of the year. The crisp fresh air. High School and College football season. Homecomings—especially HBCU homecomings! Maybe I just love Fall because I was born during this season. Born on Election Day of 1965, I value the ceremony of elections. I enjoy how election season rides along with the change in weather patterns. I love to witness the beginning of a communal lull. A lull fueled by the exhaustion of summer. I witness families begin to hunker down inside more. Family gatherings begin to move inside. Meals take on a heartier and more comforting character. Drives through rural southern communities afford me the opportunity to enjoy ornate decorations welcoming Fall. Homes, buildings and front yards along highways present artistry of burnt orange, yellow and brown tones all associated with Mother Earth’s Fall renderings. Chrysanthemums with variations of the same colors adorn porches. All bear the beauty of Fall.

The changing of the leaves is perhaps the main attraction of Fall. Annual trips to the mountains are planned well in advance, to get the best pictures of the beauty of trees. Colors change the appearance of trees ranging from appearing to be on fire to resembling a beautiful sunburst. Much money is invested in witnessing and memorializing the beauty of Fall. Timelines on social media share this beauty with those who may not be able to witness it firsthand.

It wasn’t until I was a bonified adult that I realized that what we are witnessing in the Fall is the beauty of death. The color of the leaves we photograph is directly related to the stage of death the leaf is in. The vibrant green of the leaves from the summer begins to display remarkable combinations of red, yellow and orange tones. All leaves’ final color destination is brown. Brown leaves are dead.

The beauty of death has never been illustrated for me more profoundly than a year ago when, in the Fall, my father transitioned from life to death. I had watched a year prior when he beat the odds. At that time, doctors told us to take him home and make him comfortable. The thought was that he would most likely not live through the remainder of the year. They sent him home with oxygen and gave us contact information on palliative care. Being the strong tree that he was, he defied what the doctors had said and leaned on the strength of the one he knew to be in control of everything. I watched as he pushed himself and bounced back. His need for oxygen through a tube was eliminated. I watched as he regained his strength and was back to rambling in the yard and even driving again. His determination gave me a one-year bonus with him. While I relished the long phone conversations and visits, I always knew that each time I talked to him, and each time I saw him, could be the last time.

A year later, we were back in the same place. This time, I didn’t get the reprieve we all got the year before. I watched my hero as the beautiful stages of death coursed through my spiritual, physical and emotional being. I’ve experienced more deaths than I care to recall, but I have never seen a person so prepared for this transition. His confidence in the hereafter and his resolve that he understood and completed his life’s assignment, made it easier for me to accept. My resolve that I had done all I knew to make his life as physically, spiritually, and emotionally comfortable, helped me to enjoy the journey with him. I won’t lie and say it was easy. There were some tough times towards the end, but the sheer beauty in knowing I had a GOOD daddy for 57 years fueled me. I recalled memories of his sacrifices for me. I soaked up the moments between the two of us, knowing that they were only between the two of us. On the journey from his proverbial green color to dull brown, I experienced bright orange, brilliant yellow, and fiery red moments with him during his transition.

As the final day came, one of his bursts was fiery red.  We spent the last day in our family home with him. A house full of children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren sang with him as we waited for the Hospice Center transportation unit. We sang song after song with him. Even as I knew this would be the last time I would ever see him in my childhood home again, I got strength when I heard him belt out that deep rich baritone I’d come to know as a small child. It filled the room and my heart to hear it one last time. All I could utter at the time was, “Sing Daddy!” Just like the fall leaves give us bursts of beautiful colors on their way to brown, my daddy gave me bursts of beautiful colors on his way. 

Although the leaves from last fall died. The newness of this past spring delivered cover for the naked branches last winter wrought. This Fall we get to enjoy that transitional beauty once again. Unfortunately for me, I won’t be able to experience the physical presence of my daddy again. Mother earth gives us repetitive seasons through the nature cycle. The heavenly father gives us one season with the ones we love and the ones who love us. I am grateful for all my seasons with my daddy. I know he was the daddy I needed for every season, and I’m confident I was the son he needed. That’s beautiful.

Call it What it Is

 

As a man of faith, I tend to draw from the foundations of my beliefs in times of crisis, hurt, and despair. I instinctively begin to pray when there’s something unsettling in the atmosphere. I see a car broken down on the other side of the highway and I pray that God will send the resources needed to improve the situation. I keep a list of people on my phone and pray for each person on the list daily. I add to the list as I hear about someone’s need for prayer. I edit my list based on information I receive about the improvement of people on my list and sometimes the lack of improvement. I strongly believe in prayer and know from my own experience that it is a powerful tool. It has been a useful tool for those who have prayed for me. It is my connection to my creator and the lifeblood of my spiritual being.

Although I don’t ascribe to the belief that you HAVE to go to church in order to have a relationship with God or to make it to heaven, I go to church. I attend regularly. That’s my choice. It is my way to engage in worship. It works for me. It is another tool I use to connect with my creator: God.

It is only natural for me during this pandemic to use the best tools in my toolbox to cope with my current situation. I find myself praying more. I enjoy attending church virtually on Sundays. Honestly, I think I like it better. I find myself attending several service on Sundays now. I visit my friends and family’s churches without leaving my house. How cool is that?

What I find interesting as I attend these virtual services is the position pastors take as it relates to leadership during this pandemic and in general. I hear various pastors and clergymen/women say things like, “we have to pray for our president” or “Pray for our nation”. Now, I agree we should be praying for our nation. We might even need to pray for our president. But what are we praying FOR? I’m pretty sure (and I have witnessed firsthand) that these pastors and clergy are leaving the pulpit and talking with their friends and families about how 45 is not fit to be president. They are talking about what a disaster he is and how evil he is. So why don’t they say that in the pulpit? Has their need for church membership and the financial benefit of membership clouded their ability to see what is right in front of their faces? Where are the faith leaders of the Old Testament that prayed against evil rulers and made no distinction between their evil practices and who they were as individuals?

Let’s just be honest with ourselves; 45 is EVIL. From pretending not to know who David Duke is, to calling Mexicans “rapists”, to seeing “very fine people—on both sides” in Charlottesville, to calling women “nasty” and referring to particular women as “dogs” and coddling dictators like Putin.  Please don’t forget him bragging about grabbing women by the pu**y even before the election. I could go on and on.

How, in the name of the God I serve, could an Evangelical Christian support such evil? How can any person who considers himself a Christian or person of faith not speak directly to the evil that sits at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue? Even more chilling; how can Evangelical Christians support such evil?

Can you imagine how unhinged he will be between the election on November 3^rd and the inauguration on January 20^th? Too bad the Republican senate didn’t’ have the courage to remove him when they had the opportunity. I’ll never forget the words of Susan Collins of Maine when she said, “I think the president has learned his lesson”.  Really? Does she really believe that? Adam Schiff warned us at the time that he will do it again and even worse. I tend to fall in the camp of Adam Schiff.

 It’s time to be honest and call it what it is. It’s time to stand up against evil. Pray for our country? Absolutely. As we pray for our country, let’s pray that God will remove the evil from leadership just like he removed evil leaders in Old Testament days. He’s the same God. We have not because we ask not.

 

Don't Snooze. Get Up!

Is it just me or does your bed also feel the most comfortable right after the alarm goes off in the mornings? It seems that right after the sound of the alarm fills the room with its morning greeting, the bed wraps you in one of the warmest embraces you’ve ever felt.  Some of us steal a few more minutes to enjoy the embrace by hitting the snooze button. Others have timed the alarm with such precision that there is just enough time to complete all morning duties before heading out the door.  Regardless of what amount of time we have between hearing the alarm and starting our day, the alarm itself signals the beginning of our day to work, learn, play or contribute to the world TODAY.  

I find it interesting that in today’s current political and cultural climate, a lot of us seem to be wrapped in the warm embrace of our beds while the alarm clock is going off.  

Alarm! The individual elected to the highest office in the nation has bragged (in a documented recording) about sexually assaulting women. Alarm! The highest ranking government official is being advised by a self-proclaimed xenophobe, racists, race-baiter and misogynists. Alarm! Proven incompetent individuals are being appointed to cabinet positions for which they have NO experience. Their only qualification is their net worth. Alarm! Elected officials we sent to Washington to perform the will of “the people” are more loyal to their political parties than they are to “the people”. Alarm! The country in which we live, a country of immigrants, is attempting to force (through executive order) a ban on the some of the very people who have played a large role in making America the great country it is. What ever happened to "Give me your tired, your poor. Your huddled masses yearning to be free......." Alarm! The leader of the free world refuses to denounce his “bromance” with one of the country’s biggest adversaries. 

I could go on and on but I’m sure you get the point by now. The question is: What are you going to do? Are you going to hit the snooze button over and over again? Are you going to turn the alarm off and enjoy the comfortable bed? Are you going to get up and DO SOMETHING? It’s your decision. My suggestion is that you get up, put your big boy/big girl boxers and panties on and go make a difference.  What does that look like? I don’t know. It’s different for everybody. What is certain is that there is something you can do. Call your respective elected officials and let them know your displeasure with their lack of commitment to "the people". Speak out against unfair treatment of immigrants and people who are perceived to be “different”. Speak up in the office, locker room, grocery store, etc. when folks are spewing hate speech because they somehow feel they have the “right” to speak it now.

Whatever you decide to do, don't get comfortable.  GET UP! Alarms are going off everywhere.

I Have A Dream

Usually during Black History Month I do a daily post on my Facebook page spotlighting a moment in Black History.  This year I thought I’d do something a little different but couldn't think of anything to do that would be representative of my Black History sentiments.  To some degree, I still haven’t come up with anything. 

I was listening to a nationally syndicated radio show yesterday and the question the host posed was; “Is Black History Month relevant /necessary anymore?” I listened as callers expressed their opinions on either side of the issue. Valid points were made on either side.  One caller in particular got my attention. He made the point that he remembers ‘learning’ about the SAME people, hearing the SAME stories, watching the SAME movies, etc. every year during Black History Month.  It made me begin to ponder the question myself.  Is Black History Month still relevant? My easy answer to the question is “YES”! Black History Month is necessary and it is still relevant.  The bigger question to me is: Have we limited ourselves by calling it Black History Month? After all, History is what it is.  History doesn't change. History is the past.  Is it possible that we miss out on celebrating African-American culture in a way that is representative of the progress—and sometimes lack of progress—we've made in various areas? Can we celebrate the African-American Culture better by recognizing an African-American HERITAGE Month versus a HISTORY month? The truth of the matter is; I think that’s what we already do in some instances.

Rather than spending countless hours at formal programs “learning” about Sojourner Truth, Harriet Tubman, Booker T. Washington…….., can we just spend time recognizing our current struggles and successes.  I mean, really, if I hear one more verse of “We Shall Overcome” I think I’m gonna poke my eyes out with two sticks! Haven’t we overcome SOMETHING by now? I know we have a LONG way to go still but singing we SHALL Overcome seems to discount all the accomplishments we've made thus far.  Just my opinion.  

Can we get to a place where we not only talk about Dr. King’s dream and start living some dreams of our own? Don’t each of us have a dream just like Dr. King did? We realize that he did not get a chance to live out his dream but WE have a chance to make our dreams a reality.  Let’s move out of the shadows of HIStory and create our own stories during Black History Month.  Let’s state what our dreams are and do our best to live them out.  Do you have a dream? I do!

• I have a dream that an articulate, educated African-American male in a professional environment will no longer be considered an anomaly by his colleagues.
• I have a dream that my bi-racial and multiracial nieces, nephews, family members and friends will not be gawked at and asked the dumb question, “What are you”?
• I have a dream that my lighter skinned, 100% African-American, family members and friends will never again be asked, “What are you?”
• I have a dream that the American just-US system will view a 16 year old African American male as a Child and not a hardened criminal adult.
• I have a dream that my nephews, cousins, friends and family members will never again be stopped by the police for “suspicion” when the reality is they were Driving While Black.
• I have a dream that social service programs will no longer be viewed by the establishment as a way of life for African American families.
• I have a dream that the African-American “Ratchetness “ seen on TV and social media  does not become the status quo for us.
• I have a dream that intelligent and articulate boys and girls will never again be accused of “acting white”.
• I have a dream that differences in political opinions will no longer be tools of division in this “ONE Nation under GOD”.

I have a dream that we ALL have dreams that we want to see become reality!

That’s my Dream. What’s yours??

A Cell Phone, A Can of Tea and a Bag of Skittles

So much has been said about the George Zimmerman verdict in the last few hours.  Many journalist, activists, politicians etc. are spending countless hours and much effort trying to determine how we came to the place that George Zimmerman walked out of the courtroom a free man.  I followed the trial from the beginning and sadly, I have to admit I was not surprised.  I don’t have the energy to play the blame game and to try to figure out who’s responsible for the outcome. I can’t take my emotions on that roller coaster ride yet again.  What I can do is simply make some acknowledgements en light of the outcome.

I acknowledge that the criminal justice system—especially in the state of Florida-- is designed to protect folk other than those who are like Trayvon Benjamin Martin or who were in the position he found himself in on that rainy February night.  Most of all, I acknowledge that the main issue that got lost in the details and debates of this case is that Trayvon Benjamin Martin was a 17 YEAR OLD BOY. 

In listening to the various witness testimonies, cross examinations, etc.,  it somehow got lost that this was a 17 year old BOY; not yet a man.  He didn’t have the right to vote, he didn’t have the right to purchase and conceal a weapon as George Zimmerman did and he didn’t even have the right to serve in the armed forces.

The prosecution spent countless hours trying to determine who was on top and whose voice was heard on the 911 recording screaming for help.  Those hours were wasted in my opinion. Regardless to who was on top or who was yelling for help, Trayvon Benjamin Martin had the RIGHT to be walking to his father’s fiancé’s house.  He had the RIGHT to be in the neighborhood. He certainly had the RIGHT to walk through the neighborhood without being pursued by an armed neighborhood watchman.  The prosecution failed to present Trayvon Benjamin Martin as a 17 year old BOY who was doing what 17 year old BOYS do; going to the neighborhood store, buying drinks and snacks, and talking on their cell phones. That’s what they do.

If the prosecution had perhaps angled their case around the fact that Trayvon Benjamin Martin was SEVENTEEN YEARS OLD and was doing what 17 year olds do, perhaps the tone of the case would have been a bit different. It was never clear to me during their questioning and their presentation of the facts that Trayvon Benjamin Martin was a child.  The point as to whether it was Trayvon Benjamin Martin’s voice on the tape or whether it was George Zimmerman’s voice should have been a mute point had the prosecution angled the case differently.  Why do I say that? I’m glad you asked…..

From the time children are in elementary school and before, we teach them that if anybody approaches their personal space and makes them feel uncomfortable,  SCREAM BLOODY MURDER.   We tell them:  “If a stranger approaches you and you feel threatened;  punch, kick, bite, scratch, yell, scream and do whatever you can to draw attention.”  Could that not have been what Trayvon Benjamin Martin was doing on that rainy night in February of 2012? Couldn’t the prosecutors have presented that theory? Would the 6 women (5 of whom were mothers themselves) not have understood that theory?

Regardless to Trayvon Benjamin Martin’s physicality or George Zimmerman’s physicality, Trayvon Benjamin Martin felt threatened. Rachel Jeantel testified to that no matter how you might feel about her testimony. 

When a person is faced with what Trayvon Benjamin Martin was faced with that night, their instinct is to “Fight or Flee”.  We have always known that.  Trayvon Benjamin Martin’s first response was to Flee; and he did.  He was confronted again and the second time he chose to FIGHT.  Did he break George’s Zimmerman’s nose? Did he beat his head against the concrete? How did this 17 year old BOY overpower a grown man? Well, how do people perform incredible acts like removing heavy objects from their bodies when trapped under rubble from a fallen building? How does a 125 pound woman lift herself from under a car when she has been pinned in a car accident? How did Aron Lee Ralston find the strength to amputate his own arm with a dull “multi-tool” to free himself from a fallen boulder that had him trapped for 5 days. How did he repel down a 65 foot cliff to safety after performing the amputation? It’s called “survival instinct”. All these people knew their lives were in danger.  Trayvon Benjamin Martin felt his life was in danger when he was hunted down by George Zimmerman on that rainy night; and it was.  He was simply trying to save his own life.  Unfortunately, he was not able to.

How did the prosecution miss this angle? It’s actually not much of a surprise to me.  From many years working in the criminal justice system—particularly with juveniles—I know for certain that the system doesn’t recognize a 17 year old black BOY as a child.  The perception of the system is that he is an adult. The prosecution presented the case in that manner. They spent hours trying to counter the defense with the fact that he was not the aggressor when they should have spent time presenting him as a 17 year old BOY that was minding his business and doing what 17 year old BOYS do. Instead, they concentrated their efforts on defending what he did in response to George Zimmerman although he had EVERY right to react in that way. They totally missed it.

Trayvon Benjamin Martin was a 17 year old BOY. Nothing proves that like a Cell Phone, a Can of Tea and a Bag of Skittles.

#justicefortrayvon

525,600 Minutes

When the movie “Rent” came out a few years back, one of my friends insisted that I come along to see it.  After all, it had been such a big hit on Broadway and I needed to be “more cultured”. Well I went kicking and screaming. All I remember about that experience is that they SANG A LOT! I didn’t get a real feel for the story except that somebody was a filmmaker, somebody had AIDS, somebody was being evicted, somebody was a performer, somebody was on drugs and they SANG A LOT.  Even the girl who appeared to be dying at the end got up and SANG.

During Christmas this year I was sharing my experience with my theater actress niece who couldn’t believe I didn’t like the movie. She absolutely loves the play and insisted that I watch the video of the actual Broadway play that she forcefully handed me. She was convinced that I’d really like it.  Reluctantly, I took the video and watched it. What I remember from the video is:  somebody was a filmmaker, somebody had AIDS, somebody was being evicted, somebody was a performer, somebody was on drugs and they SANG A LOT.  Even the girl who appeared to be dying at the end got up and SANG.(Sorry Ty)

What was ringing in my head after watching the video was that powerful song at the end. It was by far my favorite song from the movie/play. That chick with the big voice really took it home. In addition to liking the song I learned that there are 525,600 minutes in a year.  I guess I should have known that but I've never really thought about breaking the year down into minutes. It really got me thinking since we’re winding down 2012 and heading to 2013.

I began to think in the few minutes I have left in 2012 (and I say ‘few’ because it is a small amount compared to 525,600). I began to think back on how I spent the bulk of my minutes this year and how I can make the best use of my minutes in 2013. I started thinking back and wishing I could get some of those minutes back. My sad reality is that I can’t get those minutes back.  I think we could all agree that we have wasted some of our minutes on things that didn't matter in 2012.  Maybe that’s what all that SINGING was about in “Rent”. Maybe that was the message. We can’t afford to waste the minutes we have.  This is so true in every faction of our lives. It’s true whether referring to the time our governmental bodies spend to make decision on things like the Debt Ceiling or the Fiscal Cliff. It’s true in referring to  the time a person has left on their job that will be ending  “in a minute”, the time a person battling a terminal illness has left or simply time spent away from family, friends or loved ones. You can’t get back the minutes lost regardless to how they are spent.  I’m reminded of a little poem I sometimes quote—not sure where I got it from:

            

            I have only got a minute. Only sixty seconds in it.

Forced upon me.  Can’t refuse it.

Didn't pick it. Didn't Chose it.

I must suffer if I lose it

Give account if I abuse it.

Just a tiny little minute

But Eternity is in it

Powerful, isn't it?

Well at 12:00 am on January 1, 2013 we all will have 525,600 minutes of the year 2013. What are you going to do with yours?

Birthday Blog: "8th Anniversary of my 39th Birthday"

As I celebrate the 8^th Anniversary of my 39^th Birthday, the first thing I realize is that  I haven’t blogged since 2011—I have GOT to do better!! If nothing else, I am going to commit to blogging more frequently this year. Of course there are things I have to say. I don’t know where my passion went.  Believe you me, I will find it again!

Now, on a more serious note…….

I am grateful to celebrate another year.  Although these anniversaries seem to be coming twice as fast as they did in the past, I remain happy to celebrate LIFE.  I wouldn't dare take this gift for granted.  Those who know me well and know my story can attest to the fact that 8 years ago, the gift of LIFE was one that I wasn't sure I would possess.  A serious storm hit me that almost took me out. The strange thing is, during that time, an earthquake and tsunami hit the west coast of Indonesia.  I was totally unaware as I was facing a tsunami of my own.  From November of 2004 to January of 2005 I was in a deep sleep. I was in a coma. I was not aware of anything that was going on in the world. 

Now, 8 years later, Sandy had devastated parts of the East Coast.  Strange how these storms seem to be a theme with me.  The interesting thing about my storm of 2004/2005 was that I wasn't aware of much of it at all.  While I only hear the reports from family and friends of what that time was like for them, I only know that during that time I was not “here”. 

For me, the gift of LIFE was in the balance.  There were times that looked better than others.  According to reports from family and friends, doctors had little hope for me to hold on to the gift of LIFE. Plans were being made for me to live in some type of assisted living facility.  After all, the doctors thought that if I did live, I would never be able to live alone again.  “They” said that I would most likely suffer brain damage after being on a ventilator for so long. }They" said I’d need assistance with personal care. They must not have known that during that whole time I was resting in the arms of the giver and sustainer of life. Little did “they” know, I was coming back to my gift; to my LIFE.  

I returned to my LIFE in January of 2005 realizing I had been through a major tsunami. I listened patiently as doctors told me how I would be able to get oxygen tanks for my house and could have the mobile oxygen units when I ventured out. (I still whisper a prayer of gratitude every time I see someone with those portable tanks) I listened patiently as physical therapists worked with me and gave me information about getting hand controls for my car.  After all, I wouldn't be able to drive with my feet anymore according to them. What "they" didn't know was while they were artificially sustaining my life, God was sustaining my LIFE from a divine vantage point.  Don’t get me wrong, I am soooooo grateful for all the work the doctors and staff at NC Baptist Hospital did to, and on behalf of,  my temple while my spirit was absent. Had it not been for them managing my temple, my spirit would not have had a place to return to. I am eternally grateful for that.

My return from my tsunami brought with it some storm damage. Although the forecast was pretty grim for me, I continued to believe in the promises God made me. I went through physical therapy, speech therapy, occupational therapy, respiratory therapy with the knowledge that I would return to my LIFE as I had previously known it-- minus some storm damage.  My feet don’t operate like they did prior to the storm. I have limited feeling and function in them.  My lung capacity is not a good as it was. BUT, I can talk and sing like they never thought I would. I don’t walk with a cane, crutches or any other assistive device.  I don’t carry a mobile oxygen tank or have one in my home. I drive my car with my FEET. I have some storm damage, but I have LIFE and that’s what God promised me.  I don’t take it for granted.

Earlier this week, President Obama and Governor Christie surveyed the damage from Hurricane Sandy. They observed and discussed the massive damage the storm’s impact has had on the communities in New Jersey.   No one can really predict even what the landscape of the Jersey Shore will look like going forward. Parts of New York are still without power.  A huge construction crane still hangs from the top of an apartment building still under construction.  No one knows what will happen if it is not secured and falls to the ground.   However, there is still LIFE. And, where there is LIFE there is HOPE.  Like me, the East Coast will have some storm damage but it will continue to live.

So, on this 8^th Anniversary of my 39^th Birthday, I celebrate the greatest gift I’ve ever received: LIFE.  I am grateful for all I have. I am grateful for the people in my life who have prayed for me, thought of me and kept me lifted not only during my storm but before and after.  I am grateful for the LIFE I have. Most people who don’t know my story don’t even recognize the storm damage.  They don’t even recognize my limp.  I jokingly say, “He’ll turn your limp into a pimp”! LOL (I know. Only I would say something like that). 

I thank God for the storm, I thank him for the storm damage and most of all I thank him for LIFE!  On this, my 47^th Birthday, I thank God for the greatest gift he’s ever given me. I thank God for LIFE!