Past

I returned from the military in May of 1981. A lifetime ago. I was really not enamored with being home, although it was my choice. A choice based on a voice from God that literally said, "go home".

This voice was familiar but based on ancestors, long gone and recent/past ideology from visits to the sanctuary. I heeded but was quite skeptical.

There I was. At mama's house and ready to go the moment I arrived. 7 months pregnant. I knew her name was Jasmine. I now call her Nicole.

I started looking for my own crib, immediately. I had money, a sense of perseverance and a stronger sense of independence.

It didn't take 24 hours to figure out why the voice (God) sent me there. 

I went to a Bible Study beneath a tree (a shelter that I had been to many times, unsaved) - there, I listened to a man I loved from youth, but on this occasion, he introduced me to the same Jesus he had preached before; I accepted and my life has never been the same. I was 22. 

I moved into my first apartment on American soil  (I had lived in Germany, previously) and started hosting many entertaining endeavors.

My place was the place. My younger sisters crashed there.....my friends dined and played cards. I started mothering at that same spot and there, I learned that I loved to have people over. I delighted in playing music, cooking good food, laughing, gossiping, telling good stories and living life.

On top of it all, I was saved, sure and sold out for Christ. Oh, the good times that ensued. 

There was not a day that went by that didn't include a friend dropping by unannounced and welcome. I didn't realize that hospitality was a gift; I just knew that the more, the merrier. It became "do drop inn" and, I loved it. 

That small apartment was filled with love, laughter and tears. The stove was always on and the door was always open. 

Eventually, I moved into a larger apartment and the company followed. 

My love for the Lord, my Church and the people of God continued. The man that introduced me to Christ became my spiritual mentor......father....friend. To this day, I miss his presence, his preaching and his influence.

.................

Since I began blogging, in April of 2018, I have always had a title prior to my actual content. I looked.....I even stared (there is a difference) at the title section, then I tabbed down to where you type the actual content.  

At this moment, I have no idea what I'm going to write. Another first. 

I do know that I have been promising to blog for months. I have even written dates and made promises, and you "liked” or “loved" the posts on social media. Then. Nothing. I had nothing. 

Now, don't get me wrong. I always have something to say. A story brewing. An incident. Past or present. And as a woman said to me in 2019, "Well, you know you love to talk,” which isn't quite true. It also hurt my feelings. Can you tell?

This is the reality. I love to tell a story......which sometimes comes out in the most irritating, rapid-gunfire, incessant way. I see what she means, I guess. 

My first audience was my baby sister, Yvette. I would come home from school and tell her everything that went on, but I always put a spin on it that made her sit patiently and listen. Or I would read books—sometimes boring, historical books—that I made come alive. 

As adults, one day she said, "I always loved listening to your stories," and I beamed. By the way, if she is ever telling you a story, run. They are long and drawn-out and sometimes, you forget what she was even talking about. But she does have a beautiful way of telling a story with her voice. She is a singer extraordinaire. Moral of the story: if she has a pianist with her, you are safe. 

Each time I told you I was going to blog, I meant it. I even had an idea that I jotted down. I had a thought about something I found interesting. Then, life......

You would think that in a time where social interaction is limited and people are somewhat sequestered, that I would find myself with all the time in the world to share. That was not the issue.

The truth is, the outside world has crept in and stolen my writing ability. My wit. My quips. My penmanship. It is almost like I do not know where to begin, and if I started, you would be reading a novel. But the novel would have so many chapters and no fluidity and no rhyme or reason. 

It would be romance, horror, fiction, non-fiction......based on my life and also based on my dreams; yes, like this sentence, it would be all over the place. 

So I have no blog. I have the recent passing of Chadwick Boseman, who played T'Challa......the superhero of black children and others. I have Jacob Blake, Breonna Taylor.....George Floyd......I have people, including myself and my youngest, who ran for 2.23 miles to honor Ahmaud Arbery.

I have Emmett Till who was 14 when he was lynched and Tamir Rice who was 12 ……I have Sandra Bland......I have Trayvon Martin.....I have friends I went to high school with who support a man and slogan that is aimed at making "America great again". 

I wish I had an old rotary phone. I would painstakingly put my finger in the hole and swing it around 7 times and when they answered, I would ask:

Which great do you desire to go back to? When my forefathers worked your fields? When my mother's, mother's mother breastfed your mother's, mother's, mother's children. When you hosed my people like dogs or spit on my people at the lunch counter? Or was it during the middle passage where my people were forcibly transported and made the final journey to Charleston, South Carolina? Interestingly enough, I went there in 2019 and ate shrimp & grits and thought of none of this. 

This is all I have. Minus the title. 

Poppy #2

Poppy's mother and I have had many discussions about infertility, and most of it has centered on whether or not it is a recent phenomenon. We have varying views about it, and I suppose that is because of our own life experiences. 

My mother was 22 years old when she had me and I was 22 when I had Jasmine. I don't think I had heard about women having a difficult time conceiving until perhaps 10 years ago. I also only knew of a handful of women who had suffered the loss of a child because of miscarriage. 

My era is one that was built on the industrial age, and Jasmine has had the benefit of going through her 20's and 30's in the information age. She and her peers are accustomed to living their lives out loud and sharing their experiences one keystroke at a time. 

With that being said, both of my daughters are extremely chaste when it comes to social media; I believe their brother shares more than the two of them combined. I am proud to say that all three of them are respectful versus inappropriate. And for this, I am grateful. 

My point is that Google, Wikipedia, WebMD, Bloggers, Snapchat, Instagram, Facebook and Podcasts, just to name a few, are all designed to inform the masses about any and everything. We are living in a world that loves to share.  

When Michelle Obama wrote about her own experiences with miscarriage and IVF in her book Becoming, many believed the former first lady was doing her part to help soften the stigma around pregnancy loss and infertility. 

My daughter has shared with me how difficult it has been for her when people voiced their assumptions about whether or not she wanted children and how invasive she thought people had become because they would inquire. 

I, on the other hand, found it to be a natural part of conversation that someone may have with a young couple. So much so that even after knowing what my daughter was going through, I found myself asking a young man one evening in Indiana, if he and his wife wanted to have children. Little did I know that they were having the exact same struggles, and they were deeply devastated that she had not yet conceived. 

So, have women of previous generations dealt with the same struggles and loss as the women of today? Have food, environment, stress, toxins, and God knows what else played a part? I don't have the answers, but I believe the latter is true. 

My daughter’s blog was very romantic, and it was a teary-eyed read. I honestly thought that mine would be more of the same. I am as surprised as you are. 

I believe in God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost. I believe that He honored a select group of female relatives that Jasmine asked to pray with her after her second miscarriage. Two of my sisters and me, my other daughter and two of my nieces. We're the prayer squad. 

We prayed with her and for her and her husband almost every Saturday for well over a year. We fasted together every Friday from sun up to sun down in the month of September 2018. Nothing—absolutely nothing—by mouth.

We wrote individual devotions on prayer and faith that we will one day share in a book. We set individual goals and did the “21-day financial fast” by Michelle Singletary. We laughed, we cried, but most of all, we prayed. We prayed out loud with each of us taking turns on fb video messenger. 

We also prayed for our individual and collective family members and we shared a list of other concerns that had come to our attention. 

In the midst of our belief, God did it. He gave us Poppy. Middle name Grace. The significance of her middle name is quite obvious. Her first name is also quite special. 

The man who baptized me, performed my wedding ceremony, baptized two of my children, and presented my last child to Christ, died on October 12th, 1997. He was a man of small stature, but extremely formidable. 

He was a preacher’s preacher and a mentor to many. His Bible Study methods were extremely unorthodox and not to be missed. He was the professor of a satellite theology school, but saved his best lectures for us at Denny’s. 

Over the years, my mother and three of my sisters were his administrative assistants. And on the rare occasion, I would find him sitting with my father, in silence, listening to Jazz music. 

He was well sought after, but extremely humble. He was prone to helping intellects, but preferred to be around young, inquisitive people. And as such, my children were as devastated as I was when he went home to be with the Lord. 

  

His name - Dr. Emmerett W. Roland. But we called him "Poppy."

Poppy #1

I am sure many of you have heard the phrase, "music to my ears," right? After 27 hours of labor, on November 5, 2019, a medical professional laid my granddaughter on my daughter's chest and I heard my daughter say, "I've waited my whole life for you!" It was positively the most beautiful thing I had ever heard.

I asked my daughter, Jasmine, if she would be willing to share my first blog writing of 2020 because I wanted our circle to learn more about this incredible love story. The highs, the lows, the frustrations and ultimately God's faithfulness.

*Jasmine

My husband Thane and I have been married for 10 years. We have spent 9 of them desperately trying to get pregnant. That's 3,285 days, of praying, dreaming, hoping, begging, mourning, giving up and realizing that, no matter what, God is in control. And He will give me the desires of my heart in His perfect timing.

After 5 unsuccessful attempts with IUI, we decided that we would try IVF. Once we started that process, our lives were totally consumed by a particular, well-timed-out schedule. There are the medications, giving myself shots in the stomach, going to doctors’ appointments every few days. Then there is my husband giving me shots in my hips, egg retrieval and finally embryo implementation.

These are the various steps that every person must go through on the journey of IVF. Keep in mind, that going through them, does not guarantee that you will end up pregnant, let alone deliver a healthy baby.

Thane and I wanted a baby with our whole hearts so we moved forward full speed ahead. Our first embryo transfer worked and I was pregnant!! I can't begin to tell you how overjoyed we were. We told everyone about the pregnancy. I mean everyone! Family, friends, co-workers, people at the grocery store. Our neighbors. Yes, everyone.

Then our world turned upside down, I suffered a miscarriage at 9 weeks. I have never experienced a loss so great. Sometimes it felt like my body couldn't hold all the grief because it was too big, but in those moments, I really leaned on God. I would literally cry out to Him for peace, and He would pour it over my heart.

Two months after the miscarriage, we implanted another embryo and I was thrilled to be pregnant again. We kept this one under-wraps with the exception of sharing with my mother and a few others. When we went in for an ultrasound at 6 weeks, there was no heartbeat. The pain, if possible, was magnified and I was inconsolable. I want you to understand that my grief is not a contradiction of who the Lord is or what He can do. I am a human being who spent countless hours dreaming of the joy of parenting with my husband. The loss of these two children is indescribable.

After this loss, my husband and I decided to take a break from IVF and focus on healing our minds and my body. It was nice to focus on something other than our desperation for a child. We were intent on focusing on our marriage and it was during this decision-making process that I reached out to my mom and asked her opinion about starting a prayer group. I am pretty sure you will enjoy her version of the "prayer squad" much better than mine.

This would be a never-ending blog if I shared all that transpired during this time of "chill." What is most relevant in this journey is that I grew closer to the Lord. I developed a more intimate relationship with Him, and Thane and I began attending Worship on a weekly basis. Life became more manageable, and soon we were ready to try again.

When we implanted our last embryo, we did it with extreme optimism. We believed, along with the "prayer squad," that the Lord would see us all the way through and we would have the child we had been praying for.

God honored that prayer request, and on Nov. 5th at 9:19 pm, I gave birth to Poppy Grace Sanges. My mom has a saying that she normally ends her advice with. It goes something like this, "I have never lied to you and I'm not going to start today."

When I told Poppy that I had waited for her my whole life, I hadn't practiced what I would say. Remember, my dreams had turned into nightmares on two occasions. I was almost afraid to imagine the moment. I opened my mouth and my first words to my daughter were the truth.

*Suni

Part 2 is coming on 1/31/20

Thank you for your Service!

There is a reputable grocery chain that has numerous stores and grocery distribution centers, in 8 states. I probably know more about this chain than the average person because my husband is a professional driver with them. 

I have had the pleasure of attending banquets where the insider information is shared and the drivers, the heartbeat of the company, are celebrated. Last year, my husband was a nominee for “driver of the year.” I left that banquet with a lovely little envelope that he promptly handed me after he was gifted. 

Most people would agree that there is only one other grocery chain that might be considered its rival. Both chains have delightful ambiances, and the service is stellar. I think we have them beat now that we have "select" bar service. Yes, you can grab a glass of wine prior to (or after) grocery shopping. I love it! Naturally, I only shop at the one that puts money in our pocket. As an entrepreneur, I understand how vital it is to support what supports you. 

Another feature that always puts a smile on my face is their "reserved veteran" parking slots. I always pull in proudly and hop out of the car. On a few occasions, I have gotten the impression that passersby doubted I ever served in the military. I shrug it off and head into the store. 

A week ago, my cousin came to visit from Pennsylvania. I was really excited about seeing her, even though she really came to hang out with my daughter. 

At some point, we went to the store. As I pulled into the reserved stall, I said out loud, "Every time I pull into this spot, I feel judged or as if people doubt that I served.” Then, we all jumped out of the car laughing at something else (who knows what) and continued enjoying each other's company.

At first, I didn't notice the big, black truck that was parked behind my car. I didn't realize that a Caucasian gentleman was asking me a question. I didn't know that my service in the military was actually being challenged. 

When I recognized what was going on, I could hear my daughter saying, "No sir, no....you are not going to do that to my mother!" At the same time, I was asking him to repeat his question. He did so quite willingly. "What branch of service were you in?" The snarl on his face was evident. He looked like the cat who had swallowed the canary. You know that "I gotcha look" of someone who is so sure that they caught you with your hand in the cookie jar?  

I was so stunned, so pissed off, and so shocked that I found myself asking him, rhetorically, "what? - what did you say?"  Before he could answer, I was moving toward his vehicle. I have no idea what I was going to say or what I was going to do. I just knew that I needed some space and opportunity, and I was sure the rest of it would work itself out.

My daughter, who has a much cooler head, literally put her elbow and forearm into my chest and said, "No, mommy back up.......etc."—all the while, letting the gentleman know he needed to move on. 

When he realized, based on how passionately we were dealing with things, that I must have served in the United States Military, he tried to clean it up by saying he was just curious where I served. He was lying.  

When you approach a known veteran, one of the first things you say is, "Thank you for your service." I have had it happen to me more times than I can count. I have humbly said it to others. My father and I say it to each other every year on Veteran's Day. He was lying.

I am not sure what about me said I couldn't possibly be a veteran. Was it my laughter wafting from the car? My beautiful melanin magic? My gender? My African styled head wrap? Perhaps it was all of these things bundled up together.

That entire episode could not have lasted more than 45 seconds, but it really broke my heart. I tried hard not to let it show in front of my daughter and my cousin. The sadness settled in my spirit, rumbled around, and now, it is here on paper. 

My daughter, who is always bossy but never aggressive, told me later that she didn’t want me to approach his vehicle because she saw a rack and thought he may have a rifle. Really?

I suppose she is right. Anything is possible. How many other people of color have been shot for less?

As Donald Glover so eloquently penned, “This is America” – and even though we picked their cotton and nursed their children, no one appreciates our service.

Legacy

Recently I texted my adult children and requested that they participate in a video chat. I didn't share the topic (the oldest child shared with me later that this caused a tad bit of anxiety) but they understood that it was mandatory. 

 

Once we were connected, I talked with them about my expectations for how they should conduct themselves when it comes to handling mine and Cleveland's affairs. I was specific about why I was leaving certain items to whom and the fact that the oldest is the executor of our will. I went on to explain that I expect for all decisions to be made jointly other than what we have specifically spelled out. We laughed about some of the choices I made and at one point, my son said, "You know I am gonna let them do whatever they want, Ma.” And I believe it. 

 

None of this was the real reason for the call. 

 

I told them how much respect I have for them as adults and that in their roles as parents, they would begin to create (if they haven't already) their own family traditions. Would I love for them to abstain from Halloween and teaching the fallacy that bunny rabbits lay eggs? Absolutely! But I refuse to challenge them or their spouse’s decision-making skills. My children have always sought my advice when they deemed it necessary, and I trust that this will continue. As a matter of fact, when I want to talk with them privately about something serious, I always ask their permission. This bears repeating. I respect them as my adult children.   

 

As I was speaking to them, my grandson was in the living room working on a puzzle. He was the reason I initiated the contact. His name is Amari Jordan White, and he's 9 years old. He announces his name very proudly when he introduces himself to others, and it is quickly followed by, "but you can call me A.J. for short.”

 

He's smart. He is in the gifted and talented program at school (given an opportunity, he will announce this also), and he is an extremely logical thinker. He is also very well-mannered. With the exception of the need to brag, he has my son's intellect and personality. 

 

In a few short days, Amari and I covered many topics. We talked about HBCU's. What a fraternity is. Being bullied in school and the after-affects. We also chatted about this insane idea he had about not displaying his brain power so that he won't be selected to skip a grade. This, of course, led to me explaining the term "dumbing down" and suggesting that he speak to his parents about his fear of being too small for the next grade.  

 

Ultimately, we landed on his favorite pastime. For several months, I have been well aware that my grandson is addicted to a game called Fortnite. I will not begin to bore you with why/how he is allowed to spend so much time playing the game, nor am I going to tell you the extreme measures he has taken in order to play. I am not even going to tell you about the strangers he has met while playing and how they have contacted him. I will say that my concern about all of this was the reason for the video conference.

 

I wanted my children to know that although I will not be invasive about how they rear their children, I do want them to consider what is on the table. The legacy of what my parents taught that their parents taught that their parents—well, you get the picture.

 

The morals, ethical values, respect for others, hard work, the bond of your word, and our love for God. These are not optional. The going in earlier, staying later, and working harder. These are not optional. A firm handshake (whether you are a male or a female) while looking the other person in the eye, the ability to apologize, and your commitment to those who are down-trodden. These are not optional. The immense dedication to your siblings above all others. This is not optional. 

 

For the last 10 days, Amari has spent time with me, Cleveland (who he affectionately calls Pop-Pop), his Aunt Sassy (and her husband), and his Aunt Sissy. He has been to two museums, played tennis 4 times, put together a 100-piece puzzle, worked on some art projects, swam several times, rode on Pop-Pop's motorcycle, and baked some chocolate chip cookies.

 

It is my hope that as an adult, he will look back on these summer visits and think of them fondly. No video games and no mobile devices. Just a family of loved ones looking to continue the legacy.

Be Still My Heart

I am always moving, talking, doing, cleaning, cooking, exploring - you get the picture? I am a self-proclaimed busybody. I get things done. You can count on me. I start what I finish. I mean, the best kind of mover and shaker. At least that is what I have always told myself.

Have I ever heard complaints about my inability to chill? Sure. But why take them seriously? As a matter of fact, I don't understand people who lounge around all day and relax. What is that about? There is so much to be done and I have always said, "I will rest when I'm dead.” My sister attributed a famous Army slogan to me many years ago. "I do more before 8 o'clock than most people do all day!" I thought it was a compliment.

So imagine my resistance to my therapist asking me to meditate for 30 minutes twice a week. I thought to myself, "Is she crazy?" Then, I said out loud, "Uh, that is a really long time. Do you think we could start small?" She agreed, and so my assignment was to do 15 minutes, twice a week. That was over 8 weeks ago. Guess how many times I have done it. Once. And it was painful.

My mother said I have been this way all of my life. Always talking and moving and attempting to do something. It is who I am. My husband often says, very graciously, "That is how you are wired". My daughter, Jasmine, says that I have a lot of little people that live in my head, and they are constantly telling me things. I believe they have resigned themselves to the fact that this is just who I am. What I have discovered is that who I am can always be improved upon. However COMMA this one is a real challenge.

Every time I think about attempting the exercise, my mind starts to come up with all the things I could be doing in that 15-30 minute window. All the things that I could accomplish and cross off my list.

I shared in my December blog that one of the reasons that I sought out therapy was for mental self-improvement. I am often impulsive and rash. I oft times say things that I wish I could take back. If you know me, this is where you are either nodding your head in agreement or you laughed. It's cool—I can take it. I am working on it. Or am I?

The assignment is supposed to help me be more mindful. My oldest daughter, who is the Membership Director for the Girls Scouts of America, shared that they teach their girls the same thing, but they use a different word: “Thoughtful.” That hurt.

At my core, I am an extremely considerate person. I want the legacy of my life to reflect my genuine love and appreciation for others. If my affection is overshadowed by my inability to be still and focus, then there is a conflict that needs a resolution.

So here is the real deal. This is a matter of discipline and self-control. Being able to sit quietly and not consciously go through a mental laundry list of ideas and activities is a valuable tool that I need if I plan to master my impulses. For far too long, I have treated them as if I have some amazing gift that everyone else is lacking.

The heart is the very center of our being. It commonly refers to the mind as the center of thinking and reason, but also includes the emotions, the will, and thus the whole inner being. The heart is the depository of all wisdom and the source of whatever affects speech, sight, and conduct. Proverbs 4:23 puts it like this: Keep thy heart with all diligence; for out of it are the issues of life.

I have to work on my heart health. And that all starts with the practice of sitting still. As I wrap up this blog, I sit here with two of the tools that I need to become proficient. A blank journal I purchased (about the same time my therapist gave me the assignment) and a made up mind.