Waiting on the Lord
The prompt for this month was:
Tell us a story about a time you didn’t feel God’s presence in your life and what you did about it…
And I was sure I’d have something to say. Until…I didn’t.
I am one of those very lucky people for whom God is always present.
I used to quip that I’m always either sitting on His (Jesus’) lap or His shoulders. Or wrapped in His arms, when things get really bad. Or really good, if He wants to let me know how proud He is of me.
The feels. I can’t even.
Even as a child, before I had any concept of God, I’d learned that if I spoke my mind to…Whoever…things happened. “Something” just adored me.
I knew I was Black and a woman and all that, but “Something” always stepped in when I asked. Or steered me where I needed to go, even when I didn’t. Saved me from all manner of evil, every single day.
I grew up in a tough Chicago neighborhood that has become even tougher over the past few years. Our old address is smack dab in the middle of what Spike Lee infamously dubbed “Chi-Raq.”
But my doting godfather was Doctor James Scott, twice voted “Mayor of Bronzeville,” builder of Ida Mae Scott hospital, Everybody’s Church, and founder of countless other community organizations, events and programs.
When Black jazz greats hit town and couldn’t stay in the swanky hotels they often played in, they stayed with “us.” In fact, because my mother provided the Southern style cooking during those stays, some of them stayed with us even if they could stay elsewhere.
Our little two story apartment building — “Doc” chose to live in the community he served — was a haven of civility and swank. An oasis of upper class comfort in the midst of chaos.
I thought all Black kids got their pictures taken by and featured in The Chicago Defender on their birthdays. I really did.
And went to charm school, took ballet, tap, jazz dance and piano lessons, preparing for some kind of fairy tale world where Black girls could do whatever the hell they wanted to do.
That was partly my godfather’s fault. But it was also God’s fault. Because despite all the warnings I received from not just most of the people outside our family but also the neighborhood most of them lived in, I knew it was true. He, that special “Something,” had my back.
Guided me through the mine fields on those mean streets and straight into college. And to a job with the Chicago Sun Times almost immediately after that. To sit desk-to-desk with the amazing Roger Ebert, who was one of his angels. You cannot convince me otherwise. He did angel work on my behalf almost until the day he died, Roger.
You don’t get assistance like that without some serious Divine intervention. In fact, I was gifted with lots of illustrious angels. My daughter’s “godfather,” is the lead guitarist of Styx, a boy also from Chicago’s South Side who has been my “brother from another mother” for decades.
I know, right?
In fact, her birth was actually an answer to prayer. About a year after I’d suffered a pretty horrendous miscarriage and was told that my hormone levels were probably the cause. And probably would keep me from ever having the child I wanted so badly, at my age.
I’ll never forget it. They were checking those low hormone levels when they discovered I was pregnant again. So I got this little cutie the next year:
I know, right?
So, Jesus and I have a sort of “Tevye” thang goin’ on. Remember how he rants and raves and shakes his fist at God in Fiddler on the Roof?
When I feel my world spinning out of control or that I’ve wandered onto the wrong path somehow, I look up, shrug and say, “Dude! Holla at yo’ girl! Haven’t heard from you in a minute.”
And the answer comes. Maybe not for another “minute” or more, but loud and clear, when it does.
So I honestly do not remember, even when I almost died from an illness the doctors misdiagnosed a dozen times or more, feeling that Jesus was far away or not listening to or watching me.
I would not have lived if He hadn’t been there. I would not have learned from it, had I not known how to listen to what He was trying to tell me. Private lesson. I’m supposed to live it, not talk about it. So forgive me if I don’t share all those secrets here. As asked in that prompt.
I’m sorry. But the only prompts I follow to the letter come from Him.
Maybe my words will resonate with some of you anyway, though. And for those of you who turned to Faith Hacking this month looking for a way “home,” let me at least say this.
You are home. Turn your heart light on. Keep still. Let Him speak.
Yes, faith . That’s the definition of it. And that silence, a test.
Listen to this while you’re waiting. If this doesn’t do it…I can’t…
