Month: November 2014

If I Had Wishes For Falling Stars

by The Unconventional Life, posted in christianity, Faith, Hope, Inspiration, Relationships, Spirituality, Yoga

Jude 1:2 – Mercy, peace and love be yours in abundance.

I am the color of peanut butter. Native, African and European collided to make me. Sometimes I feel as if I don’t belong to any particular people group. White doesn’t claim me. Black says I’m not black enough. Native doesn’t know me and refuses to historically accept me and those like me in some tribes. What is my identity?

My husband very proudly declares he is African. He is in love with his blackness. He looks at me and shrugs lol. He along with everyone else in my family thinks I’m not black enough. If one more person asks if we’re having black food for Thanksgiving we will be in a drive through! Is it too much to ask that my gourmet palette be indulged for one day?

My life experience has been very different. Black girls hated me growing up and I could never understand why. I just wanted friends. The white girls took me in and were my best friends. They taught me about shaving legs and wearing eyeliner in elementary school. My mother hit the roof. Her black child was not supposed to do those things! I snuck and did both and my sister made sure to sing like a canary. I belonged to a group so I didn’t care and I very proudly lifted up my aqua net bangs with my friends. She messed up my census paperwork anyways. I was supposed to be an other lol.

Middle and high school were different. Leaving West Virginia for Northern Virginia was culture shock indeed. There was such diversity! It was awesome! I am the color of peanut butter and I sounded like a country hick/redneck. Black kids demanded I be quiet or go back to wherever there were people with my accent. My sister tried to work with me for days. I will never know how she mastered the accent of the hood that we’d never been to. Exasperated she gave up and begged me to say I was adopted. No one wanted me to answer the phone, it confused whoever was calling. I sang John Denver’s Country Roads every single day. Ahh sweet childhood memories. Luckily the asian, white and hispanic kids were ready to befriend me. I was in honors, you only needed to be intelligent. I also landed two black friends.
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So this is the back story to what exactly? A grand jury verdict I suppose. I don’t know how to feel due to my life experience. Should I be enraged, mournful or anxious? I keep asking my husband if perhaps we should try Canada? He’s enraged. I’m thoughtful. Last night we were watching his black history DVDs followed by a sermon in a black church by a black man. “Kathryn you hear that,” he asks. I reply yes. I want to understand a black man’s experience in America, but is that even possible?

Five days a week I am surrounded by black children because I work in public housing. My sons are black teenagers. At times I am concerned about their existence in this country.

I asked God to show me something after my yoga class on Sunday and we made a few stops, but this verse in Jude stuck with me. It is the focus of my yoga practice. Yoga has no color. I belong to a people group again. The instagram yoga community is amazing! I find more of myself with each pose. I do headstand when I am overwhelmed. I call it changing my perspective. I have been balanced on my head quite a lot for months. My husband thinks I’m crazy, but last night he was balanced on his head as well. He keeps asking me why I spend so much time on my head and in yoga poses. I always give the same response. “I’m looking for Jesus. We meet on my yoga mat.” I then listen to very long speeches on mixing religions. He doesn’t realize I left religion for relationship a long time ago. People do evil things behind religion. I just want to emulate the heart of God.

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So if I had wishes for falling stars. I would wish all human life mattered not it’s origin. I would wish that none of the public housing children would fall into doomed generational statistics. That children sold into sex trafficking would be set free and their souls healed. That child soldiers would lay down weapons for toys. That young girls would not have to be mutilated or become child brides. That diversity would be appreciated. That the heart of yoga would flow through more people. That my son would pull his damn pants up! That I would be accepted for myself because peanut butter is freaking awesome! Above all I pray that mercy, peace and love be your covering.
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Namaste.

Prodigal Challenges

by The Unconventional Life, posted in christianity, Faith, Inspiration, mental health, parenting, Relationships, Spirituality

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I was groggy when I dropped my son off this morning at the jail to begin his community service. I drove like a bat out of hell trying to get him there by 7:45. I am sick and tired literally.

I watched strange youth line up. So many of them. I just sat for a moment as I tried to absorb statistics against a grey sky accompanied by a brisk wind. My son didn’t wear a coat like the others. He wasn’t prepared. Neither was I. I haven’t quite figured out how to cope  with this set of circumstances.

I have retraced all my motherhood steps. I have yet to find the misstep. I have asked my son multiple times to help me, but he simply says, “You were a good mom.”

Hours later he calls and says he is not being released. The spin of the tornado begins again. I lose it because I am sick and I just want to rest. I don’t want to have to deal with a rebellious son entangled in the criminal justice system. “I’m sick of your fucking lifestyle. If you had better friends I wouldn’t be dealing with this shit.” He hangs up. He calls back. I am still in an exasperated panic. I shut him down with anger. Epic fail again.

I call my mom who joins me in the whipping winds of an unwanted emergency. The unpaid court fines do not belong to us, but once again we absorb another burden. My mother insists we can’t give up on him.

“Jesus this isn’t fair. You didn’t ask me if I wanted to experience this. I would have vehemently said no thank you.” I think about the emotional and financial drain this puts on me. I simply don’t feel like it.

I am baffled by the disappearance of my son. It’s hard to hold eye contact with who he is. My shoulders slump in disappointment. My eyes are tired from crying. It’s hard to focus.

After repenting for cussing like a sailor, I can only pray for mercy. I don’t understand why this is happening. I paused almost my entire adulthood to raise my sons. I went to churches and parks instead of clubs. I tried so hard, which makes feeling like a failure even worse.

My husband reads the parable of the prodigal son very loudly. He asks if I understand that I can’t love my son more than God does. I nod yes. He asks why am I crying when God is at peace. I just stare blankly at him. “You see Kathryn, God will use whatever circumstance that is necessary to draw us to him. You still do not understand his love,” he says. The tension between us is now gone.

My son is an unknown number to me for the next several days. I named him Christian so that he would know to whom he belonged. No judicial system can ever erase or replace that.