After my last post, I was chatting with my best friend about the Dollar Tree popcorn he was snacking on. I looked at the bag, and there it was, Philippians 4:11. This same scripture was on my desk this morning. I received CONFIRMATION FROM POPCORN!!! On this wonderful note, goodnight! 🖤
“I am the Vine, you are the branches. When you’re joined with me and I with you, the relation intimate and organic, the harvest is sure to be abundant."
I was done with faith. I wasn't reading the Bible. I wasn't praying. I wasn't attending church. I settled in my heart that religion was not for me. I couldn't seem to reconcile faith and intellect. I couldn't reconcile faith with some of my firmest convictions. I couldn't reconcile faith with what I was experiencing and observing everyday. Over hypocrisy, tired of an external commitment to something I was not believing or living, I took as many steps away from faith as I could.
I spoke to my best friend about this on several occasions. He and I had rather spirited debates about faith, church, and God. In one of these "conversations" I said something along the lines of:
"There is no way that God is real, and so many people go to church week after week, month after month, year after year and nothing changes. Hearts are not being healed; there is so much hurt in this world. People and families aren't being restored; there is so much brokenness. You can't tell me it's because ALL of these people lack faith. When was the last time you saw a person raised from the dead? Walk on water? Feed 5000, not including women and children, with two pieces of fish? How long have you attended church? How long have you been a believer? When was the last time you witnessed a miracle of Biblical proportions? It doesn't work! It's not working. Plus, churches have inconsistent standards and practices all over the world, and so many of them are predatory. Too many churches are filled with hateful, hypocritical, unloving, unfriendly, judgemental people. Religion, like any other high, is temporary fix. It's all emotionalism...Either God's not real or He has piss-poor ambassadors."
I spoke from a place of anger and hurt. I was frustrated at God and people. I felt like God had failed me because even at the height of my faith, life didn't seem to work in my favor. I was frustrated with people for being people. And my bitterness expressed itself as disbelief.
The concerns I voiced were valid, but my motives were wrong. I was loud and vocal about the futility of religion while quietly enying the tangible presence of God in the lives of other people. I know I can't be the only one who says "I just don't believe" while yearning to connect to God in a real and permanent way.
If you know that some or a big part of your disinterest in God is because you feel He has no interest you, know that you are wrong. He cares for you. He's available to you. His presence in your life can be as palpable as the device you're holding to read this post.
What I am actively learning is that it's a heart issue and a matter of surrender. Don't be prideful. Open your mouth and heart and tell God you want more of Him. Tell Him that you want a personal, intimate, genuine relationship with Him. "Come close to God, and God will come close to you." "Say a quiet yes to God, and He'll be there in no time."
When He honors your request; when He fills your space; when you, in humility and understanding, arrive at heartfelt acknowledgement that in Him you live, and move, and have your being, don't forget to be a loving, shining ambassador for Christ.
Take a good look, friends, at who you were when you got called into this life. I don’t see many of “the brightest and the best” among you, not many influential, not many from high-society families. Isn’t it obvious that God deliberately chose men and women that the culture overlooks and exploits and abuses, chose these “nobodies” to expose the hollow pretensions of the “somebodies?” That makes it quite clear that none of you can get by with blowing your own horn before God. Everything that we have—right thinking and right living, a clean slate and a fresh start—comes from God by way of Jesus Christ. That’s why we have the saying, “If you’re going to blow a horn, blow a trumpet for God.”
Heartened by your story;
moved by parallels,
I listened.
I travelled through your history,
witnessed shared experiences,
and listened.
Captured by your bravery;
surrounded by universal truth,
I listened.
You spoke, I listened,
and this belief took root.:
We are not that different at all;
barriers disappear when people talk...
What an unnecessary thing to say to your partner who has sight and intellect. When you see an attractive woman while with your partner, do not try to put her at ease with comparisons. She sees the woman. She sees her attractiveness. If another woman's appearance makes it into the conversation, don't take the comparison route. It's ineffective, and frankly, it's annoying.
A woman who is secure in herself can recognize and acknowledge the beauty another woman possess without feeling intimidated. The woman who knows who she is and what she brings to the table is not afraid of her well-built foundation being rocked by something as superficial as beauty. She's not oblivious, and she can handle the fact that she's not the only pretty woman in this world.
Hear me. The woman who has yet to recognize how valuable, powerful, intelligent, and beautiful she is won't be validated by comparisons. They don't help, and often they magnify self-doubt. In her moments of insecurity, don't tell her about any other person. Speak to her in love and remind her of the things that make her the fearfully and wonderfully made woman that she is.
"...until you can say that, you'll continue to stay in circumstances and situations that belittle and demean you." -Iyanla Vanzant
In this photo, my aunt, cousin, and I are pictured with my dad during a visitation. I've shared this information before, and I am sharing it again...
Prompted by Ava Duvernay's documentary, 13th, I decided to research my dad's criminal history. I purchased the $3.32 public record criminal record which revealed two arrests. He was arrested on March 14, 1990 for failure to identify, a misdemeanor. His second arrest occurred on August 7, 1990. It was Burglary of a Habitation, a felony offense. My dad, 19 years old at the time, was sentenced to 35 years for this crime.
Today, I believe that the topics explored in the documentary played a factor my dad's case, particularly his sentencing. I can only imagine how different my life would be if I didn't have the experiences I have with my dad. 35 years is a long time.
My dad has a career; he works hard. He is a present, loving father who looks forward to being an overbearing, doting grandfather. (He doesn't know what subtle is, so his hints are not hints at all.) He's his own special brand of serious and funny. He's passionate, boisterous, and a combination of other things that make him "Papa Lee." Although he and I missed nine or ten years together, I'm grateful for the sixteen to seventeen years that he's been home.
Scroll through my posts, and you'll be able to gather that I learn so much from my dad. He's one of my favorite people, and my life is richer because he's in it. It's unfortunate that prison is a part of our father-daughter narrative, but it is. It doesn't have to be a part of your narrative with your children.
My mother prays for me. I have always known this. It was a nice thought, but it wasn't something that I've ever took time to seriously consider and appreciate. A little over a month ago, I had a difficult decision arise. It was not difficult because I didn't know the right thing to do. It was difficult because I desired to do the wrong thing.
As I often do, I called my mother to talk it over. As she always does, she gave me her honest opinion and said "I love you. I'll support you no matter what you decide, but I'm going to pray God intervenes in this situation." I could hear the concern in her voice during that conversation. I imagine that she prayed earnest prayers. A few hours later I sent her the texts on the screenshot you see.
"Were you praying, Sister? God gave me the confirmation I need that that is a horrible decision."
I posed it as a question, but I knew she was praying. Her prayers on that day helped me more than I can express at this time. It helped my faith to know that God loves me enough to intervene in my situation. It helped my heart to know that He hears and loves my mother. It gave me the understanding that intercessory prayer is a love thing. It is love that causes my mother lift me up in prayer and call on her Heavenly Father when her child is in need.
I will always believe that on April 13, 2017 God rescued me, and I'm humbled and grateful. I want to encourage parents to keep praying for your children even when you do not see results. Prayer works. Prayer is powerful. God is listening. Do not grow weary in doing good, and pray without ceasing. Know that God can save your babies and do for them what only He can do.
A few years ago I wrote something comparing moms to cells. Cells are known as the "building blocks of life." They are where life begins and grows, and every living thing is composed of cells. Moms, like cells, are the building blocks of life. Their bodies are literally the place where life begins and grows.
One definition of mother is "to give birth to." Every person comes from a mother and carries the genetic material of a mother. My favorite definition of mother, a compilation of many definitions, goes beyond biology, conception, gestation, and birth. It is a woman in relation to her child or children, who shows maternal tenderness or affection, cares for and protect, raises, teaches, holds a position of authority and responsibility, and loves unconditionally.
That is a tall order, but so many women fill it. They're not perfect. There is no such thing as a perfect mother, but everyday women all over the world give their children all they have. And when their humanity is especially apparent and mothering is a daunting feat, love and commitment compel them to keep on keeping on. The loving, taxing, enduring, evolving, beautiful roles of our mothers help shape the adults we become.
Today, we are especially thankful for mothers, the building blocks of life. We appreciate their support, sacrifices, and tutelage. We honor them, and we recognize their dedicated construction.
My hair elicits your opinions.
My body art evokes your feelings.
My hairiness is uncomfortable.
My clothes are too ambiguous.
My weight must be noted in every conversation.
The Negative Committee never takes a vacation.
Divest yourselves of this obsession with my body.
The next time you overstep, I won't respond politely.
If you don't like my looks, keep calm; look away.
Don't make it your duty to tell me the offensive shit you say.
-LeKechia Lyshell
Challenging is not a dirty word, and people are people, not video games. You cannot change individuals' level of difficulty to suit your preferences.
"For mad I may be, but I will never be convenient."
-Jennifer Donnelly
"Of course I am not worried about intimidating men. The type of man who will be intimidated by me is exactly the type of man I have no interest in."
-Chimamanda Adichie
Neither of us could fry catfish like she could. We both knew that. My mom used fish fry, and I was inexperienced, but the eldest, wisest one of our trio used cornmeal which she seasoned to perfection every time...without measuring. We definitely wanted her to cook the fish. So we put on a show...
Me: Mama! Can you please cook some fish? I really want some fish.
Mama: Nope. You better do it yourself.
Me: Please Mama! Doesn't fish sound good?
Mama: I'm not frying any fish tonight, Kechia. It does sound good though...
Me: But I just made it home...Didn't you miss me? I've been gone for months. I missed you. I certainly missed home-cooked meals.
This happened in December of 2011. Of course, I don't remember what we said verbatim, but it was something along the above lines. My mom and I went back and forth until she finally stepped in.
Grandma: I'll cook y'all some fish.
Without saying a word, my Mom and I celebrated. We would have Grandma's fish.
As we were sitting, eating our beautifully fried, perfectly seasoned fish, the eldest and youngest of the trio synched up.
Grandma: I'd sure like a pint of strawberry ice cream.
Me: Oooohhh Grandma! That sounds so good...Blue Bell...Mmmmh hmmmm...Sure does sound good.
Grandma: Yes it does, Baby. You know I love strawberry ice cream.
My Grandma and I went on and on about ice cream and Blue Bell until finally my mom, who had not participated in the conversation, spoke up. "I'll go get some ice cream."
Without saying a word, my Grandma and I celebrated. We would have Blue Bell ice cream.
The semester had recently ended. It went well. I hadn't been home long. I was up late, hanging out with my Mom and Grandma, being spoiled. My belly was full, and I was about to get a late night dessert. And to top it all off, we were watching Corrina, Corrina. Life was good...
My mom returns with three pints of ice cream from the convenient store.
"Kechia, that ice cream was four dollars a pint, and you paid for it."
She smirked...We had all won.
I was sitting in the closet, bawling, on the phone with my mother when she made that statement. The 23 year old me was overwhelmed, frustrated, and in crisis. Marriage, school, work, and life had fatigued my coping skills, and the only thing I could do in that moment was sit and cry. (The closet felt like the perfect place to do both.) I needed my Mommy. Like the shero that she is, she allowed me to vent, talk about ANY and EVERYthing, and she responded perfectly. It was something about her understanding "as a woman" that made me feel comforted, visible, and connected.
I wasn't the first woman to sit in a closet and cry; I wouldn't be the last. I wasn't the first woman to feel overwhelmed as a wife; I wouldn't be the last. I wasn't the first woman toppled over by an inability to balance life; I wouldn't be the last. And, I was not the first woman who needed her Mother to make everything better, and I would not be the last.
I appreciate my mom for mothering, sistering, friending, listening, counseling, and being all that she is to me. We do not have a perfect mother-daughter relationship. We've had our highs and lows. I can say, without any doubt, that my mom loves me and I love her. We've built a transparency and closeness that is unparalleled. She's the "queen of my heart" always and forever.
P.S.
Whenever I'm having a particularly Kechia moment, she often says "whoever raised you, raised you wrong." It always makes us laugh, but I should tell her more often that I appreciate how I was raised.
In my hometown fifth and sixth graders used to attend school together. It was call the Intermediate School. When I was in sixth grade, after my first six weeks at the Intermediate School, my family moved to another town. Much to my surprise and huge news to the eleven year old me, I would attend middle school. Middle school, in this town, was grades sixth through eighth.
Initially, it was intimidating, but as I made friends and got adjusted, it became normal. Plus, I thought the eighth grade boys were "soooooooo cute," and I developed a crush on one of them. I cannot remember his name. I don't remember what he looked like. I have no clue what led to this crush. The only thing I clearly remember about that boy is what I overheard him say when someone told him I liked him.
"The chubby girl?"
I remember that he said it with such a strong combination of incredulity and dismission that I knew not to mistake it for a description. It was repugnance. And, I, a little girl who assigned importance to the opinions of little boys, internalized that as rejection.
Years later, a much more headstrong young lady, I was engaged in an arguement with this guy around a group of guys. I could handle myself, and I was. I was until he said something that had nothing to do with the topic of debate.
"Don't nobody care about what your husky ass have to say."
As all of his friends starting laughing, I shrunk. Who knew "husky" would be the showstopper? I had no response. Eloquence was no match for a physical insult, and I had never mastered the art of "scoring."
It was at some point between eleven and eighteen that I began to wonder:
Who taught them that? Who taught boys how to skillfully categorize, dismiss, and dismantle girls on the basis of their looks? Who failed to ensure that girls were so confident, secure, brave, and strong that they could not be belittled or depreciated by opinions?
As a young woman, with a sensitivity about how others perceived my attractiveness despite years of fighting to overcome it, a man, whom I cared a great deal about, in anger and cowardice, echoed the sentiments of the eighth grade boy and boy from high school.
"You ugly anyways...fat and ugly."
Though it was still a sore spot, I saw those words, and any related opinion, for what they were, a shitty attempt to tear down a formidable opponent.
It doesn't cease to be offensive. It's still utter crap that the go-to, almost instinctive reflex in heated moments with women is to take jabs at some sort of perceived or real physical insecurity. What I find heartbreaking is that for so many of us these tactics are still effective. Insults about our looks can still take us to vulnerable, hurtful places.
If I could go back in time and force sixth grade Kechia to understand that at 26 she wouldn't even remember his name and his opinion shouldn't matter, I would. I can't. I can say to every girl and woman, please hear me.
You are beautiful! Period!
Any voice, internal or external, that contradicts this is a lie. May you grow invulnerable to those lies, and so damn receptive of this truth. From elementary to eldership, may you be confident, secure, brave, and strong enough not to be belittled or depreciated by others' opinions.
"...Instead I hear a million ancestors yell that I have no right to have no life. They tell me I am exactly what comes after the ones that survived The Middle Passage. They tell me I am directly descended from the ones that thought it was punk shit to jump ship...They sing that I am the ungrateful realization of their dreams. They sing that I am their social, technologically spoiled offspring. They sing since it took 400 years of misery to bring me here my suicide is not an acceptable offering."
-Taalam Acey
I've often laid my heart on this page, and though you can't see it, these writings are laced with tear stains. On occasions, I've wrote to the point of exhaustion. For me, it's worth it; I do it for catharsis. There are days I stay in, turn my phone off, and just be because I can feel the words prodding to be free. This was never about your likes. This is my breath; writing is life. I don't have to be paid. I may never be well-known with a stage, but at the end of each day, whenever I finally go to sleep, it's enough knowing that I wrote my peace.
They are rooted,
forever in the same place,
but never without courage
to move and shake.
Exposed to the elements,
unguarded and unclothed,
they stand so tall, fierce, and bold.
Winter, spring, summer, fall,
they have no choice.
They endure them all.
Their composure doesn't complain.
They adapt with grace
and beautifully change.
They are cut down,
lose leaves and branches,
but when the wind sings,
they engage in joyous dances.
They conquer every trying night
and remain standing each morning.
They possess an effortless resilience
and contain a powerful testimony.
I didn't know who I was, but you were shaping who I'd be.
I learned so much about life and love at 2519 Taylor Street.
I witnessed a house become a home
and a family without money have it all.
I was taught about God.
I learned how to cook and clean.
I was told the phrases that so often return to memory:
'Culture varies from house to house.'
'When you leave, you represent your family.'
'There is a right way to do everything.'
'Put on lotion then socks before you put on your pants.
You spent time ironing. Why wrinkle them again?'
It's where we had discussions at the dinner table,
and lack wasn't felt; we were just that grateful.
And, on my 16th birthday, I literally danced in the rain
then entered the through the garage so I could change.
At 2519 Taylor Street,
I fought with my brothers.
I found my voice.
I had a tyrant for a mother.
I learned Psalm 91.
I lobbied against a bedtime of ten.
I turned the ringer off so calls could keep coming in.
I know who I am; those experiences shaped who I will be.
Looking back, knowing what I know, I wouldn't change a thing.
I know what I am capable of and Who I possess.
I'm firm in my vision even when I can't see the next step.
I didn't know who I was, but you shaped who I'd be.
2519 Taylor Street remains the house of my dreams.
I convinced myself of your rarity and then held onto you as if letting go meant devastation. "This is special...It's worth fighting for...It's worth hurting for...It's worth settling for...It's worth waiting for...He is special..." I conditioned me and credited you for my influence, but you did not conquer me. I gamed, manipulated, and subdued myself; you were just the beneficiary of my self-deceit. Too faithless and inpatient to wait for better, too lazy to prepare for better, and too self-loathing to accept better, I created that dysfunction and wallowed in it. I decided it was okay to adjust my standards to fit the woman I was rather than adjust my attitude and behavior to suit the woman I want to be. On the surface, everything appeared to be about you and me, but it was actually about me and me. My relationship with myself made the relationship with you possible, but the two are mutually exclusive. As I focus and love on me, anything I have for you minimizes and suffocates, and I will love me 'til the detriment of us.
When she's out of reach
or you fear a weakened hold,
you revert to who you are.
It's about power and control.
Yesterday, she was "my Queen;"
today, you called her a bitch
fully expecting her to drink
the poison from your lips.
In calmness, she's "Beautiful,"
"fat and ugly" in your anger.
You actually believe her being
is subject to your changes.
You belittle, insult, apologize,
and demand that she forgives.
You work to convince her this
is the life she has to live.
You never suspected
she'd take her power back;
you did not think
she'd outgrow your attacks.
Certain she deserves better,
immuned to your shit,
that woman had enough, and
there won't be an again.
