I can’t fix you…

I have family members and friends I would love to fix. What I mean is, I wish I could wave some kind of magical wand that would create an automatic fix over the pain, confusion, that I see them struggle with. Not saying I don’t have no worries of my own. But I have learned that life means you have to accept some things, even when you don’t really want to. You have to accept your failures. You have to accept that the person you love might not love you back and you can’t make them love you. You have to accept that life can get messy and your emotions will surprise you. You have to accept that you can’t have everything you want. You have to accept that sometimes the ball does not roll in your court.

We have always told people that they needed to succeed in life. We have told love ones that they must reach for the stars, that they must be the very best they can be, that they need to strive for the gusto, and when they get tired and weary, lost and depressed, we tell them to push on. Then when hard times show up, because hard times will always show up, we watch as they fall apart. We wonder why they can’t get their act together.

I can’t fix my love one into getting up from their broken places. But I can sit with them in that broken place. I can be honest with them, and provide the space allowing them to find their way back. As much as it hurts to watch a love one fall, it hurts more if they are not granted the grace to discover their strength.

I can’t fix you, but I will love you.

Rev. JacquiP


Summer of 1972

Today, I answered a question concerning my racial lineage as a child. What was my first positive or negative memory of my racial lineage? I am pretty sure I did not quite understand the question, but the venue in which it was asked, came from a safe space. My first response in my mind was to think of the positive memories. The family gatherings every summer spent at North Myrtle Beach, the Black side of the beach. The afternoon church programs and after the worship services ended, the food gathered from the opened trunk of cars, ready for us to devour. To this day, I could never figure out why the food that waited for us to stop singing and shouting, shut up in the back of trunk cars, never spoiled.

I reminisced about the school I attended. This school was all Black. Students, teachers, bus drivers, cafeteria workers, janitors, band directors, athletic teams, home economics, future farmers of America, administrators, principal, and others. The grades started from kindergarten and went all the way up to high school. My mother worked in the cafeteria. My first grade teacher was my after-school baby sitter. My bus driver was the deacon of the Black Presbyterian church that served as a beacon of light to the community. I attended school with my older cousins who were in the marching band and who I idolized and could not wait until I was older enough to be in the band. I wanted so much to be a majorette! Our majorettes were tall, elegant, beautiful and their afros were gigantic rays of energy. I never got the chance.

The end of the school year, in 1972, before summer break, the 5th graders gathered in the gymnasium to hear an important announcement. Our older brothers, sisters and cousins would not be with us next school year. They would be bus to the white school. Apparently my state took forever to integrate the public schools because simply they did not want to, until the law forced them to do so.

Our principal stood tall and Black, a handsome man, short sleeve shirt and a tie that looked like it was too short. He spoke into the mic, and told a bunch of 5th graders, who were all passing to the 6th grade, and happy about it, that when they returned, their school would be different. White children were coming. And because white children were coming, we (all of us who passed to the 6th grade) had to do better. We had to be better. We had to be smarter. We had to prove that we were worthy. I wondered, “worthy to who?” He may not quite have said it this way, but this is the way my 11 year old, almost 12 year old brain, received the message. Were we not already better? Were we not already enough?

I returned to the question and sat with the trauma that still holds on to me after 51 years. I thought I forgot. But, I have not. The summer of 1972 changed my outlook on life. Would I always have to compete to be good, to be worthy? Would I always have to show out in all my excellent ways because whiteness demanded it and now the people who knew me best demanded that I be accommodating. All I wanted to do was go on summer break, go to the Black beach, make mud pies, shoot fire crackers on July 4th, eat watermelon, spit out the seeds, run barefoot, play with my cats and dogs, dance to the Jackson Five music, and be a child.

We returned after summer break. The marching band was gone. Our school colors were gone. Our teachers were gone. The principal was gone. We huddled together in the hallways, watching and praying, could we meet their standards? Not once did we ask the question, “could they meet our standards?” We were different now. Everything was different now. The summer of 1972, in a small rural town in South Carolina, the world changed for Black 5th graders who just wanted to have fun.

The summer of 1972.


Write about your first name: its meaning, significance, etymology, etc.

My 15-year-old mother named me Jacqueline. They only allowed her to name me. Soon after my birth, I was taken away from her. It is truly a beautiful name, given to me by a beautiful girl, who reminds me every day that her soul still lives in me.


It has become difficult for me to imagine. Surrounded by the million of sound bites, the eyes only resting when I am asleep. It is difficult for my mind to get clear, to create new ideas. Set in a world that demands of you an indoctrination that is the only way, the only way, so that one does not get any ideas to create a world that might just be better than theirs.

As I laid my body to rest, I practiced my imagination. I practiced visioning new stories to create, building upon the old stories that have embraced me for so long. I laid practicing, over and over, realizing that I could not imagine creating new stories in a world that tells me to hold on to the old ones, because it forces stagnation, yelling at me to remember, to hold on and to take pride in all that the ancestors have done.

I’m holding, I’m remembering, but I wish could remember how to imagine. I wish I could remember the feeling as a child when my imagination seemed so real and the adults in my life took joy in seeing my playful dance, celebrating as I twirled in the open air, with the sun putting a happy glow on my face, being free and accepted, allowing to create, making mud pies, and hearing, “that’s good baby.”

I am remembering how to imagine, I am remembering how to create, trusting to move from the “hold on” to the sound of “that’s good baby.”

Be Well My Friends

Rev JacquiP


The last day of the year. I can find all the things I didn’t do and wanted to do in 2022. But I choose not to. Instead I choose to remember the “unplanned” accomplishments, ones that just happened without me stressing.

Watching a great movie and enjoying it with my husband.

Chomping down the best chicken cacciatore I’ve ever had at a restaurant called Tony’s in NYC.

Seeing the best Broadway play, “Death of A Salesman.”

Talking to my daughter on a phone call that lasted more an hour.

Becoming the pastor of an historic Black church in Pennsylvania.

Finding great deals on good bottles of wines!

I am sure there are much more “unplanned” accomplishments that I allowed myself to be present for. The ones that need no strategies, no time limits, no approval, the ones that create memories to treasure for a lifetime.

The older I become, the less of things I need to make me feel I need to prove myself to the world. Here I come, 2023, with more “unplanned” stuff in my basket, embracing whatever the year has for me, feeling grateful just for the opportunity to be alive.

Happy New Year My Friends,

Rev. JacquiP

This time….

Trust. I hear my breath which is rather loud. Anxiety comes. I am trusting that I can do what I set out to accomplish. I am trusting myself. Some days though, it’s hard. I trust myself to move in spaces that don’t want me there. I trust myself to speak when I know there are some who really would rather not hear me. I trust myself to dress in a way that is creative and fly, knowing someone will definitely stare, and point, and laugh.

Breathing hard again, closing my eyes, hearing that voice in my head.



I am not a writer and I’m guessing that if anyone read this, they would agree. But I hear that to become a somewhat decent writer, one need to write everyday, even when they have nothing to say. There are so many things that are happening in our world to write about, and at the same time, there is nothing to write about. Nothing new. I have heard the same news stories over and over again. It’s like recycling news from the 50’s and adding some kind of sprinkles to add a little pizazz to the story line. Trauma after trauma! Don’t we ever get freaking tired?! Or have we become so immune to the heartbreak in our world that it no longer matters? No one is coming to save us from what we have done to ourselves, right? I mean, we are not expecting ourselves to save ourselves, right?

Or can we? Save ourselves? Do we have anything to say of this? Can I save you from your worries living barely on a paycheck that does not sustain you for a week? Can you save me from my worries of aging in a society where medical bills become the talk of the day? Or we humans together?

Okay, it’s my dream. Why would I think we could all come together to save ourselves? Yep, I got nothing…..yet. But it’s still my dream!

Be Well,

My Favorite Mug

Photo by lil artsy on Pexels.com

I am somewhat lost without my favorite coffee mug. In the mornings, I look for it. I hear it calling my name from a deep dark place. When I walk in the kitchen, it is not on the counter top where I left it the day before. It awaits me every morning, ready for me to grab my hand around it’s round smooth bottom and feel the heat embracing my hands as I pour the first cup of coffee. I know! Sounds kind of a little erotic? Maybe I need help? Just kidding. Still, my mug was not on the kitchen counter this morning. I kept searching for it, following the sound of it from what sounded like a small whisper from a closed door. I opened the dishwasher and there it was. I smiled. I swear my mug smiled back at me. I rinsed the dark, dry, crumbling residue from the bottom of the mug. Yes, I saved my mug from the harmful dishwashing detergent and the extremely hot water, although she probably needed a good bath. I poured the coffee and my mug let out a breath of relief. It’s a special kind of relationship, me and my mug. Can you relate?

Be Well My Friends!

Rev. JacquiP

Turn It Off!

Photo by Marta Wave on Pexels.com

This morning’s sounds blasting from the TV seemed louder than usual. My morning routine goes likes this, get a cup of coffee, wrap myself in my favorite shawl, and watch the morning news/entertainment shows. I start first with the kitchen TV, then make my way to the study and turn on that TV, still with coffee in hand. Soon I gravitate to FaceBook and Instagram, look at a couple of emails that are nothing but marketing ads, then anxiousness and woe just seems to over flood my spirit. Too may sounds, too many views and clicks that turns in a heaviness weighing down on my body.

Sometimes when we are wondering what is wrong with us, why can’t we get to that next level of what we want to do or be, maybe we should simply turn off the television, click off the FaceBook and Instagram, or TikTok, close down our devices and quiet our minds. Find the time to walk in nature, meditate and think of those things that you are most grateful.

Turn it off and ground yourself in creating your peace, and your worthiness. Be kind to your body, mind and soul.

Be Well My Friends,

Rev. JacquiP

This is Home

When I was a little girl, I would hear the old people around me say, “This world ain’t our home.” They were referring to Heaven being our final destination and when trouble comes, this phrase was a reminder not to worry because we ain’t staying here. But now that I have reached that beautiful age of those old people, I would have to disagree with them. This world is our home and regardless of the final destination or the final resting place, at this moment, in this time, this world is where we are. Therefore, this place where we live and breathe now, matters. This place where we live, breathe, dance, sing, make passionate love, and raise our families is really all that we have, at this moment. If there is another world somewhere out there, well, fine, but I’m pretty sure God doesn’t expect for us to wait until we die to see the beauty of what can be.

We say things like, when we get to Heaven, there will be rejoicing and everyone will get along, everyone will be singing, there will be no more war and hatred. Doesn’t that sound a little uncaring and an excuse not to care for each other in the place we are now? Do I really only care about my own selfish salvation that steers me away from engaging with those who don’t think the same way I do or believe life the same way I do? Is that what Jesus really has taught us? Only for us to prepare ourselves to reach a final heavenly destination? How are we being in the world? How are we loving in the world? How are we taking care of this world that was created for us, providing places to ride our tricycles as little children, kissing our first love and enjoying the sweetness of a southern peach?

This world is our home, created for us by a Creator who loves and cares for us, so the least we can do now is honor this place, this world, by calling it “home.” Put out the welcome mat, invite others in, take care of each other, take care of this world. It’s all we got, for now.

Be Well My Friends!