Tag: personal blogger

Dalzell, SC

I grew up in a place call Dalzell, SC. I thought that growing up in the south as a black child could not possibly be the most pleasant place to live. Of course there was truly racism around me, discrimination and lack of a quality education. I could only play with my one white friend outside, where our mothers could keep an eye on us. The day my mother responded to my white friend with a “yes m’am”, I went numb. I did not want to play with my white friend anymore and come to think of it, my white friend did not ask me why. Yes, after experiencing that kind of trauma, you would think that growing up in a place call Dalzell, SC was mostly unpleasant, but it was not. This was a place of dreams and laughter; a place of joy and celebration of community.

On Sundays, I remember everyone gathering on the church lawn to eat the meal the women had prepared the night before. If there was a worship service after church, you would smell the fried chicken and cornbread that was wrapped in aluminum foil in the trunk of someone’s car. I don’t know to this day how those women kept the potato salad from not spoiling sitting in the back of someone’s car trunk while we wait for a two hour worship service to end. The tables were dressed with checkered red and white table cloths, the plastic ones, because they were easier to keep clean. The food spread out on the table, with the watermelon slices at the end so that the children would not grab first. And of course, let us not forget about the Kool-Aid with all the flavors mixed together with five pounds of sugar added. My mother’s pound cake was to die for! The children played, the adults gossiped. It was community.

On Sundays where there were no afternoon worship services, we gathered on our front porches. Waved at everyone that past by even if we did not know their names. It was a time where the older women taught the younger women how to shell beans and peas, how to prepare collards by dusting them off, looking for the small worms, so that they can be cleaned to go into the freezer for next Sunday’s dinner. The real reason, sitting among those women of wisdom was so they can tell the young women how to prepare ourselves before the Sunday suitors came calling. The front porch became the second Sunday church service. Someone raised a hymn and others blended in finding their parts making the most beautiful music together.

In this place called Dalzell, SC, on a Sunday afternoon, after church service, there was this sense of peace that could not be disturbed. What ever happened during the week, whoever called you out of your name, the person who followed you throughout the general store, it did not matter. Not on a Sunday in Dalzell, SC. I imagine that it could have been this way for every black child raised in the south, that on Sundays you got a pass to dream, you got a pass to believe. It is understandable now why Sundays in Dalzell, SC were so important. This was the time as a child we were taught to let our imaginations flow, this was the time we were taught to embrace our worth, this was the time to receive power, because Monday would come and when Monday comes, we must remember who we truly are.

Sure, as a black child growing up in the south in a place called, Dalzell SC, which had one post office and a caution light and adults monitoring black and white children playing together so as to make sure the black child didn’t cross a line, one may think this place to be a memory you would want to forget. I don’t want to forget it. This was a place of dreams and laughter; a place of joy and celebration of community. This was a place that taught me that oppression still raises it’s ugly head, but in spite of it, remember the fun you had running with your friends on the church lawn and hold tight to the lessons the porch women shared with you about how to act on a first date.

We all have stories of our childhood places which have shaped us to be who we are today. Some of those stories may not be so pleasant. But let me challenge you to find a single remembrance that maybe at the time did not seem such a big deal. A single remembrance can be just the smell of freshly cut grass or your very first kiss. You will realize that your hometown, the one you could not wait to escape from when you turned eighteen years old, is the very place you gave birth to your dreams. It is the very place you found out who you are.

My family no longer live in Dalzell, SC. We have moved in all directions, from California to Japan. But that small town with a caution light and one post office, was my home and for that I am grateful.

Happy memories! Love y’all!

Rev. JacquiP

Being Brave

Bravery must be practiced. In the past I have shied away from confrontations and conflicts. I am one of the people who like to make sure everyone is pleased. Pleasing folks was important to me. I don’t know why; maybe it was something I learned from childhood, possibly just wanting to be loved and appreciated. I don’t know the origin, but pleasing folks was hurting me and honestly even hurting the same folks I was always trying to please. How would they get to experience my weird sense of humor and how would I hear their laugher; me offering a gift of joy and they receiving that joy with gladness, all because we fear our own light. Bravery must be practiced.

Last week I attended a meeting with some difficult people. I have always wanted to impress these difficult folks. My heart was racing, my hands sweaty and my mind racing. The night before I could not sleep because I kept trying to figure out how can I get these folks to see me; how can I get them to listen to me; how can I get them to see my worth. Every idea I presented was always overlooked. I sat listening, with a big smile, pretending that all was well. An hour past. All of a sudden, there she was! Before I knew it, my voice burst out of her hiding place, burst out of her cocoon, burst out with a loud pride and spoke with so much force, “I AM TIRED OF GETTING ALONG JUST TO GET ALONG AND I AM NOT DOING IT ANYMORE!” I said nothing else. I didn’t need to.

The Sunday morning hymn played today was, “Brave’, song by Sara Bareilles. Apparently I have been practicing bravery and even though I was scared, bravery showed up, stood by my side and gave me my voice. Go and practice your bravery. Your bravery is always there even on the days your voice is low, squeaky, soft, meek or silent. Keep practicing your bravery and I promise you, one day your voice will come through with so much power, you will even surprise yourself! As the song says: 

"You can be amazing
You can turn a phrase into a weapon or a drug
You can be the outcast
Or be the backlash of somebody's lack of love
Or you can start speaking up
Nothing's gonna hurt you the way that words do
When they settle 'neath your skin
Kept on the inside and no sunlight
Sometimes a shadow wins
But I wonder what would happen if you
Say what you wanna say
And let the words fall out
Honestly I wanna see you be brave."

Be brave my friends!

How to Care Instructions

I am adding plants to my home. Y’all, I am not good with plants. I know they should be green? At least the leaves? I bought two small plants, one I keep in the basement and one I have hanging in front of a large window in my dining room. Please don’t ask me the name of the plants because I threw away the little tab that had the name and instructions of how to take care of the plants. I figured adding water was all I needed to know. I mean, you add dirt and water, anything else, like plant food, correct temperature, singing to your plant is just a bonus, right? Actually, I bought three plants, unfortunately one died, so I kinda don’t count it. I did feel some remorse though, when I threw it in the garbage. The plant in the dark basement is thriving; I’ve learned this one doesn’t require much light or water. The plant in my window is holding on, leaves are dry and falling and it doesn’t seem as vibrant. I think I could be overwatering it and the cold air coming in the window probably don’t help, but I am giving it more attention by watching the branches and eyeing if more leaves are dropping. I agree, I should not have thrown the “how to care” instructions away.

It has been almost a year of being inside away from the things that we enjoy. Being away from those that we love, from from our churches, synagogues and mosques. Away from the things that also brought us life, our favorite restaurants, attending concerts of our favorite artist, partying with friends and celebrating getting a pay check on a Friday night. We all are dealing different with this Covid-19 season. Some of us are thriving, finding new ways of being and growing in wonderful ways. Some of us are drooping along, trying each day to make it, trying to find our way by figuring out what is it that we need so that our bodies will stand tall again and our countenance will no longer seem sad. Some have found that right amount of sunlight and water; some have found that they may require something different. We all come with a different set of instructions and my belief, intuitively, we already know what that is. But there is one common thread that we all require and that is love. We require to be love and to give love. Without the instruction of someone’s DNA, without the tab that tells us how to care specifically for one another, we seek to pay attention to each other. We notice if someone is hurting, we notice if someone is hungry, and we even notice when someone is happy and join in their joy.

The plant in the window looks like it may survive. I love the hanging basket that it sits in, but I may have to move it. As beautiful as the sun shines on it, the cold air stifles its’ growth and I want it to live. In fact, I need for this plant to live, in hopes that I can redeem myself from the one I threw in the trash. But more importantly, I need for you to live. I need for you to live strong. I need for your branches to reach to its highest height. I need for you to have the right amount of water, the correct temperature and a song that only belongs to you. And when you smile, I rejoice in seeing your face glow with excitement. God requires us to care and love each other. Let’s do that! “A new command I give you; Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another.” John 13:34

Yes, I agree. I need to know the name of my plants. I will work on that!

Rev. Jacqui P.

That word, “love”

Yep, it’s Valentine’s Day. Sorry, there is no history I will offer on Saint Valentine of Rome. I have become colonized to the history of Hallmark cards and flowers; that’s really sad on my part, but I’m just being honest. Anyway, thinking about love today I wondered all the ways I have looked at this word, love, through all of my 61 years and nope, Hallmark won’t come calling. Here is what I found:

  • Love is Mom
  • Love is strange
  • Love is desiring
  • Love is hard
  • Love is breathless
  • Love is painful
  • Love is tiresome
  • Love is determined
  • Love is intentional
  • Love is blistering
  • Love is happiness
  • Love is sad
  • Love is healing
  • Love is kind
  • Love is sexy
  • Love is dangerous
  • Love is crazy
  • Love is satisfying
  • Love is transparent
  • Love is scary
  • Love is demanding
  • Love is acceptance
  • Love is justice
  • Love is God

I’m pretty sure my list will grow a little more. I might even look at love a little bit different in my seventies. But this is what I know for sure, “LOVE bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. LOVE NEVER FAILS.” 1st Corinthians 13:7

Happy Valentine’s Day everyone!

Tonight

Tonight, find a moment to pray for families whose love ones have died due to this pandemic.

Tonight, find time to hold your love ones close to your heart, even if they are not physically present with you. Pretend that they are.

Tonight, find the strength to love more boldly with the intent that you can change the world.

Tonight, dream like you never have before for tomorrow calls us all to be and do better than ever before.

Remember to Dance

I am creating a space to practice yoga in my home. Yoga is not new to me, but because I am not disciplined in my practice, I consider myself still a beginner. The room is the smallest in my home but it is the room I gravitate to the most. Hanging on the walls are two pieces of art work which are very precious to me. One is a drawing of a young woman with locs, her head gently bowed, the palm of her hand turned graciously and she is softly swaying. The drawing is titled, “Thoughts in Movement”. The other piece is a painting of three older full body women, colorful scarves tied around their heads, aprons tied around their round waist, looking like they just came out of a field, jubilant and dancing with the sun lighting their joy. There is no title for this piece. In fact, this piece was balled up in the back of my truck for years after I moved away from an abusive relationship and was about to throw it out! It was worn and had a small tear but I restored the art piece and had it perfectly framed.

While creating this space, I found myself dancing, with no rhythm. My body went in whatever direction it wanted to. My belly shaking with sounds and the flaps of my arms joining in with harmony. I looked at the picture of the three older women and laughed out loud and danced along with them, dancing through fields of hardship but swaying with an ease. I then turned my attention to the young woman and thanked her for her bravery and determination to keep moving, because of her I remember how to dance. I remember to how unravel myself from the bruise spots on my body. I remember how to hear the soft whispers instead of the harsh blows. I remember that there were other women who danced through the pain with me. I’m so glad they did not allow me to keep them rolled up in the back of a truck or thrown out in the trash.

This journey comes with some trials and tribulations. At times it may appear to be easier to hide in a corner, crumpled up because unraveling yourself will hurt. Unraveling our past mistakes, our past failures; unraveling how others have harmed us, these things are not pretty. But unraveling helps smooth out the wrinkles. Unraveling brushes away the debris of all the wrong things we have said to ourselves. Once the process of unraveling starts, we remember who we are. We remember we are creative, intelligent, loving and we can dance to our own unique rhythm.

So what should be the name of the picture? The picture of those women dancing triumphantly, the one with no name. What should it be titled? I don’t know, yet. But what I do know is that I have the power to figure it out. And for that, I dance!

Dance y’all!!!! Dance!

Girls Like Me

I revisited the name of my blog. I thought maybe I was not being optimistic by the title, “Beginning…Again.” The thought that it looked like I fail a lot, meant I start and whatever it is doesn’t work and I start again. Then I realized, here we go again, doubt, guilt and shame was sitting in. After 61 years, one would imagine that those kind of feelings don’t show up as often, because after a certain age, it is what it is and that’s just the way it is. You are who you are. No trying to make any change and why now would it even matter! For an elderly African-American woman, it matters. It matters that I continue to begin and start as many times as I can; as many times as God allows.

For some girls like me, who were raised in Jim Crow south, who experienced an environment shaped to diminish your being in order that girls like me would not discover their spark. Black little girls who were given white dolls for Christmas and read the stories of Dick and Jane, the white children whose parents were always well-groomed and their dog, Spot, who was well-trained. When I reach high-school, my English Lit teacher wanted us to read the book, “Gone With The Wind.” Of course, I did not read the book, not because I found it to glorify the Confederate army, but because I was a typical and normal American teenager. Instead of reading this book demanded by my white, young, first year English Lit teacher, I wrote a made-up story as my book report, handed it in and got an “F”. I expected it, which now I realized was the wrong way of thinking on my part. I created a story, I created my own story, handed it in and got an “F”. My teacher did not encourage me to keep writing my own story, but instead demanded me not to do it again. Sure, maybe I should have read the book; it was her class. And maybe this teacher could have seen me as her student. But she did not, because she wasn’t expected to see me as a student, but I was expected to see her as my white, young, first year English Lit teacher.

So for some girls like me, who are now black “seasoned” women, we begin as often as we can, to tell our stories and to tell ourselves we are worthy. And when at times to tell and voice these stories become a struggle, because the past is hard to shake, you will find us sitting quietly, taking in strong breaths, and saying to ourselves, it’s okay, let us begin….. again.

You and Me

The last Sunday of 2020. And my pastor decided that I would be the one to preach the last sermon of the year. Of 2020 y’all?!! Of course I could have preached about the pandemic, the fourteen million people who are unemployed, eviction notices being issued, and black lives still being brutalized. So, yes, I did preach about those things, but I also challenged what things would look like if we all participated with God in making these disturbing, ugly, sinful, issues disappear for good. How can we find ways to partner with God?

No, I am not one who believe that all we have to do is put everything in God’s hands and well, then walk away. Let God handle it. I mean, God already created the universe, provided the land for food and kind of just dropped the planet in our lap, so can we do something that God will be in total awe!? If anything from 2020, we have learned how to survive with little. We finally realized we don’t need all the stuff, the perfect phone, the sharp car (I do drive a 2011 Mercedes Benz) or the social media fame that makes overnight celebrities (well, let me rethink that one). But seriously, in all of this year’s darkness, we found people helping each other, people working with people they would have never given the time of day. This pandemic destroyed lives and in a weird way, this pandemic allowed us to see how precious life is.

So here’s my challenged. There is this scripture that points directly to how we can partner with God; yes I’m a preacher, get over it, but just hear me out, okay?

“If there is any encouragement in Christ, any consolation from love, any sharing in the Spirit, any compassion and sympathy, make my joy complete: be of the same mind, having the same love, being in full accord and of one mind. Do nothing from selfish ambition or conceit, but in humility regard others as better than yourselves. Let each of you look not to your own interests, but to the interest of others.” Philippians 2:1-4

We need each other and God needs us. If we truly want peace; if we truly want to see people made whole; if we truly want to eradicate homelessness and hunger; if we truly want all people to live free; then we must learn from 2020. Let’s see if we can show God what we’re made of!

Happy New Year!

Believe

Today is cloudy and the fog is very thick. I believe, though, that the sun is shining behind those clouds, fighting to come through and will succeed.

Today is dreary and quiet. I hear no noise of children playing in the street. I believe, though, I will hear them again when the sun defeats the darkness.

Today feels hopeless. Watching those lost in the debris of an uncaring world. I believe, though, the sun will shine so bright, that we will have no choice but to look through the darkness and be forced to see our imperfections, but also see our possibilities.

Today we will discover that we are the light that shines, we are the ones we have been waiting for.

She is Alive!

The church is not dead. She is alive.

It took a pandemic for us to see this misogynist who spews his nonsense of racism, sexism and homophobia. I say “him” because let’s be clear, it is those patriarchal stuff-shirts in the church that brought harm to her. But she is persistent, she is a fierce to be reckon with, she cannot be broken. She never came to harm anyone. Her strength is to always welcome all God’s children without any judgement. Her arms are meant to hold and protect us from the wolves that seek to colonize and assimilate us into a mind of greed and perceived power that has no backbone.

She speaks. We are listening and returning to her. Not in glamorous buildings with elaborate window stains to a face of a Jesus who they chose for us to see. But she has shown us her sons and daughters through the acts of protestors who stand against police brutality. She has shown us her sons and daughters through those who feed the homeless and demand affordable housing. She has shown us her sons and daughters through those who fight against voter suppression. She has shown us Jesus. Her children are many. Her children are powerful. Her children is love.

The church is not dead. She is very much alive with open arms and a great big smile, welcoming us home! And the gates of hell shall not prevail against her. Yeah, I know, the Peters are fuming!

Hallelujah!!