Team S.J.G.R. Belated Thursday Huddle: Think about it.

Zachary checks for errors

"Tried, you cried, you shouted, you pouted
But I told ya - you should thought about it

Think about it."

~ Special Ed

__________________________________________

The huddle for this week is very simple:

Think about the things you eat. Or better yet. Think before you eat it. 

This photo above is of Zachary who was demonstrating something his Grandpa taught him when it comes to eating chicken. He calls it "checking for errors." Ha. Well. This chicken wing that Zack was eating was at a North Carolina barbecue spot. And as far as wings (which are tremendously fattening) go, this particular place was deliciously worth every single calorie and fat gram.

Now.

Sometimes--or rather many times--food gets placed in front of us that isn't good enough for the damage it will do. Like, pizza for example. Really, really good pizza? It's actually kind of rare. Decent pizza? Quite common. My take on pizza (unless I'm just famished or being unkind to myself) is that it has to be superior pizza for me to eat it. Or at least eat it without a trace of guilt.

So I guess my point is. . . . do away with the mindless chomping. Make sure that you consider, if only for a few seconds, every single morsel that goes into your mouth. For example, I just ate half of a bagel with some crunchy peanut butter on top. I know that a bagel is high in calories and that the peanut butter is high in fat. I also know that both are great fuel before a run which, in a few moments, I will be doing. I thought about that before doing it. Oh, and did I want a whole bagel? You bet I did.

Would it have been the end of the world to eat a whole bagel? Naaah. But the bagels I have are just aiight and not worth it. Plus I might go out to dinner with friends tonight so would much rather save my calories and fat grams for something legitimately delicious. You get my drift?

I don't believe in oppressive diets. I don't. I think that you should treat yourself to really delicious things sometimes. But I also know for sure that most of the things that add junk to our trunks are "pretty yummy" or "good" but not seriously, legitimately delicious. And I'm just saying--why not push those things away instead? How about you allow yourself really rich and delicious things in moderation and then focus on nourishment the rest of the time?

In other words: Every now and then, allow yourself the chance to LIVE to EAT. But all the rest of the time? Instead just EAT to LIVE. You feel me?

Even if that's hard for you, though, just don't let yourself eat without thinking. Say to yourself, "What's this I'm eating? Am I even hungry? Is this super fattening? And if so, is it worth it?" Then as you get through your meal ask yourself, "Am I satisfied? Can I just stop eating right here and be fine?"

I will throw out a couple of disclaimers, though:

Let's say you are at a restaurant that has a legendary meal. Let yourself enjoy it, man. Don't be such a wet blanket to yourself that you miss out on the experience--because we all know that food can be an experience. One of my biggest regrets was when our good friends Shannon and Michelle, who then lived in New York City, took Harry and me to the incomparable Peter Luger Steakhouse during a visit. Out comes this marbly, piping hot, bone-in t-bone steak for four people. And me? I was on a health kick and didn't eat it. I had one bite and that's it. And that? That was just plain stupid if you ask me. Who goes to PETER LUGER STEAKHOUSE and doesn't have damn steak? Ugggh.

And no, I wasn't a pescatarian or vegetarian or vegan or anything. And I get it if you're one of those things, but I wasn't.  So, as the BHE says, "I tripped" when I didn't allow myself that experience.

But this? This piece of Key Lime Pie that I had while visiting the FLORIDA KEYS last December? Chile, please. I tore it up and licked the plate. Felt zero guilt and knew I wouldn't. Because who in the hell goes to the Florida Keys, eats at a restaurant serving Key Lime Pie and doesn't allow themselves the chance to enjoy it? I mean, besides somebody who doesn't like Key Lime pie? And what carnivore goes to a North Carolina Barbecue dive and doesn't eat the barbecue?

A wet ass blanket, that's who. So don't be that. Don't get so crazy with this that it makes you no fun to ever eat around. But also don't let the pendulum swing too far the other way. See, I guess it all goes back to the list of NOs. You just HAVE to have some things that you make a NO under nearly all circumstances. Do it in a subtle way, too. Once you have a NO list, it's easy to keep it moving.

Oh yeah. And before I forget--here's a sidebar comment: You CAN do things with your friends and celebrate their birthdays, etc. over things other than FOOD. Stop agreeing to only "meet for drinks" or "take so-and-so to dinner for her birthday." I mean, you can, but you don't HAVE to. Suggest a hike like JoLai and some friends did for someone's birthday. Meet up at Stone Mountain for a run or even a walk. Challenge your friends to come up with non-food socializing to counter every food-related one.

Just a thought.

socializing over a MEAL with my friend JJM

Someone commented on this blog that their brother said, "I'm allergic to that. If I eat it I break out in fat all over." Bwwaaah ha ha ha. I think about that and chuckle sometimes. Especially when reheating a rubbery piece of day old pizza from Papa John's. I say, "Girl, you are SO allergic to this. Do you wish to break out in fat?" Ha.

Lastly this:

Counter your food allowances with food subtractions. Not extra laps. I mean that. We LOSE WEIGHT IN THE KITCHEN. We GET FIT IN THE GYM. Stop drinking mojitos and swearing that you'll run two extra miles on the treadmill. Stop eating chips and guac and saying you'll hit an extra cross fit class. Cut. It. Out. Push the plate back. Kind of like that whole versus half of a bagel. Pay now or pay later--plate and fork wise.

Oh, but if it's worth it? I mean, legit and deliciously worth it? Eat it, man. And then go back like Zack and check your work for errors. I'm just sayin'.

That's all I got.

****
Happy Belated Huddle.

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . .

No one can tell me that I'm doing wrong today.

There's something in the way she moves

Or looks my way, or calls my name

That seems to leave this troubled world behind

If I'm feeling down and blue

Or troubled by some foolish game

She always seems to make me change my mind

And I feel fine anytime she's around me now

She's around me now almost all the time

And If I'm well you can tell 

That she's been with me now

And she's been with me now

Quite a long, long time

And I feel fine

~ James Taylor

_____________________________

It was on both of our bucket lists to see him in concert. JoLai, the consummate concert-goer, had not yet seen him and me, the very rare concert-goer, hadn't either. We both thought we'd missed our chance when he toured with Carol King a few years back and neither of us secured tickets. But then it came across her radar that #therealJT (as we call him) was touring again. And this time he'd be coming to The Hollywood Bowl. 

Let me say that again. The Hollywood Bowl. 

Oh, and if you don't know anything about the Bowl, just know that it's magical. It is.

JoLai texted me right away. 

"JAMES TAYLOR is coming to the freaking HOLLYWOOD BOWL in June. You in?"

"SO in."

So in, indeed.

Now. Let me go ahead and address the obvious questions that I am sure you have.

"James Taylor? How random is that?"

or

"How in the hell are two black girls from Inglewood 'huge fans' of a balding white man with a watery voice and an acoustic guitar? What the hell?"

or

"Who in the hell is James Taylor?"

And I just might admit that more of my friends than I care to admit asked me the former of those three. Ha ha ha.

Anyways. As you already know from my mental iPod playlists, my musical taste is pretty broad. And man, oh man is JoLai's even crazier than mine. We've both been fans of James Taylor for what seems like forever. Probably dating back to our mom inundating us with her soft rock radio stations back in the day. Regardless of how it happened, anyone who knows real music knows that #therealJT is THAT DUDE. His quiet, understated singing voice and his melancholy guitar have always done it for us. I've even turned my own children on to him since one of  our favorite bedtime songs to sing together is "You Can Close Your Eyes" -- his version, not Sheryl Crow's version.

Although I do like Sheryl's version, too. A lot, actually. 

And so. On one enchanted summer evening, we jumped on a shuttle and headed to the Bowl. And, of course, it was magical. Partly because it was the Hollywood Bowl, but mostly because it was just us two.

He opened the show with "Something in the Way She Moves." And you know? We immediately felt the same thing at the same time. We did. Both of us wept and hugged and understood. Because those  lyrics and that guitar made us think of Deanna and how much we miss her. But then, like always, it made us think of each other and every other special woman in our lives. I thought about my Ruths and felt glad to be with my closest Ruth of all in that moment. 

Yeah.

The rest of the songs were amazing, too. We knew nearly all of them and sang right along. We drank wine from plastic cups and hugged and LOLed the whole night long. I kept making JoLai crack up laughing because I kept doing this:

And then I'd say, "Hmmmm. I wonder why all of these old people are here to see J.T.? Wait a minute. . . .did they just say James Taylor? Who in the hell is James Taylor? I thought this was a Justin Timberlake concert!"

Bwwah ha ha.  Plus I kept swearing to her that at least one person in that Bowl thought they were coming to Justin Timberlake. And that thought made us both just laugh and laugh until we were sick. 

Yep.

All of it was awesome. Perfect and awesome and acutely memorable. It was. 

That's all I got.

***

Happy Wednesday. Oh, and if you've never been taken to the church of #therealJT? I'd recommend it. 

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . a few of my favorites from the #therealJT. . . . 

First, this. . . "Something in the Way She Moves.". . . .

And this: "Shower the People." I absolutely LOVE this song. . . .love, love, love it. He played it as the encore song and I nearly lost my mind. The whole crowd sang it in unison. It is a mantra for me, so a perfect song that stays on my main mental iPod playlist.

"Carolina in my Mind." Sigh. This song I love because even though he's singing about North Carolina, we all have our "Carolina." Being home in Los Angeles with my sister felt like being in my Carolina. JoLai has renovated and lives in the home we grew up in. She's left a few things as is, though, like our names over the towel racks in the bathroom. That is my Carolina. Even though I'm back home now, I know I'll be going there a lot in my mind over the next few days. (So you must forgive me if I'm up and gone.)

Okay. I just realized that I could list seventy trillion songs that I love by #therealJT. So let me just post this-- about 30 minutes of an old concert he did in Britain back in the day on BBC. It is absolutely brilliant -- and one of the only videos that includes him singing a perfect solo version of "You Can Close Your Eyes." (But I'll warn you that it's in the last two minutes of the video and tragically gets cut off.) He also sings "Carolina in my Mind" here, too, and, of course, the ultimate song "Fire and Rain" (which we also cried all the way through at the concert.) He even opens with some Beatles in this concert. Love, love, love.

Here's Sheryl Crow singing "You Can Close Your Eyes." A solid rendition that doesn't get cut off on this video (unlike the last one.) Admittedly, I've adopted listening this one as of late since it's more up tempo. The original sort of makes me weepy nowadays. But it is still always the sultry and tender one I'll sing over my kids when they're falling a sleep. This remains one of my absolute favorite songs of all time. It is so hauntingly peaceful--especially when James sings it. Sheryl's take on it makes it sound hopeful, too.


***

Who else reading this is a #therealJT fan? What are your favorite songs? What do they make you think about? So much more that I want to include. Dang!  

Oh! And for my real #therealJT fans, who can tell me where the title of this post comes from. (NOT JOLAI.) 

Camp Papa Postcard Classics: Fixing up. . . well?

Dear Mom,

Grandpa always likes to show us off and take us to places where people say, "Oh, are theeeeese your graaaaandsons? They are soooo handsome!" And it's mostly okay except for when somebody tries to kiss us with a really slobbery kiss on the cheek. Or when they ask us if we have a girlfriend. Which, right now, we do NOT!

This time Grandpa got super-duper proud 'cause he took us to the Omega Psi Phi banquet and he brought Dad along, too. And since Dad is also in the Omegas, he had to get introduced to all those people, too. But don't worry, Mom--nobody tried to give him a really slobbery kiss or ask him about a girlfriend. Oh, but I did hear this one lady call him handsome but 'cept she was kind of older like Grandpa, okay?

Oh, and in case you're wondering why our dress-up shirts aren't tucked in, Grandpa said that's how you wear your shirt when your mom didn't pack you a belt and when your granddad didn't know that until it was too late. He said to show you this picture so you can know what it looks like when ol' Grandpa is over the dress-up clothes.

Even with our shirts out, though, that still didn't stop people from trying to give us slobbery kisses or ask us if we had a girlfriend. I was kind of hoping it would, though. But it didn't.


Love,


Isaiah age 9 and 1/4 (and Zachary age 7 and 3/4)

P.S. The next day we hung out all day just the guys. I like these outfits better than the dress-up ones. But don't tell Grandpa, okay? 

P.P.S. I really don't like slobbery kisses. But I might get a girlfriend one day if I meet somebody nice.

Camp Papa Postcard Classics: The Red-eye.

Dear Grandma,

We flew to California last night and this time Mom and Dad flew with  us. It was way past our bedtime when we left--like super late. Even past the time that the Cartoon Network channel switches over to Adult Swim with all those "mature" cartoons. Mom said it's called "the red-eye" airplane. That's because everybody is sleepy since it's late at night.

Grandma? There was this one man on the plane who had really, really red eyes even though he didn't seem sleepy. I know he wasn't because every time the airplane-helper-people walked past him he asked them to give him something to drink. But not like a Sprite or Fanta. I heard Dad whispering to Mom across the aisle. He told her, "That dude is lit." Zachary was asleep but I wasn't so I asked Mom what "lit" meant. She said to ask you.

Love,

Isaiah, age 9 and 1 month

P.S. Does it mean that he was, like, letting his light shine like they say at children's church? Or something else?

Alls well that ends well.

This is a feel good story here:

A mother takes her child across town to camp. After taking her other child across town to where he needed to be first. And also while trying to get her own ass to work where she has to take care of sick human beings.

Wait. This isn't me, so like, sick. . . . um. . . marine life. Yeah. That's it. Marine life. Ah hem.

Okay. So said mom pulls up at across town camp and camp kid says, "Hey mom! I don't see my lunch box with my snack and lunch! Is it up there?" At which point said mom looks around her passenger seat knowing FULL WELL that it is likely sitting back across town where she sat it on the table. Just before saying, "ZACHARY! MAKE SURE YOU GET YOUR LUNCH BOX AND YOUR WATER BOTTLE!"

Whoops. I mean. . .errr. . .SMACHARY. I mean, since this is like, not even about me. Not even.

But Smachary totally didn't have his belongings and said mom was already late for work. After she mouthed the F-BOMB three times in rapid succession, she tried to call husband, also known as Smachary's dad. Well. Smachary's dad had worked late so he was knocked out and not answering his crappy cell phone. Smachary starts crying and stuff and lamenting about how he is LITERALLY going to STARVE TO DEATH and become DEHYDRATED. Which is actually what he said and only partially untrue if you know how hard these kids play in this camp.

So said mom frets. And frets some more. She calls in the heavy artillery. Grandma. And Grandma being Grandma, that is, mad helpful and such, agrees to come even further from across town and across counties even to bring Smachary a lunch. But as for a snack, he'd be in a bad way.

Mmm hmmm.

Then said mom starts feeling all bad about Grandma driving over the river and through the woods. She then remembers that one of the members of Team S.J.G.R. lives right, right, right by the camp. And since the team is more than just work out motivators, they are a true team, said mom said, "What is there to lose?" and sent a text to Jill Joyner. Whoops. I mean, SMILL SMOYNER. Yeah.

So SMILL SMOYNER, who is cooler than the other side of the pillow with the AC up on high, says, "Of course I'll bring Smachary some vittles." And that is what she did.

Let me just say this:  Said mom met SMILL SMOYNER originally as a reader of her blog. (Yes, said mom blogs, too.) And from there--like two years after they'd only known each other through the comments section--they became real life friends. In fact, they even have kids at the same school. But that doesn't mean Smill had to have said mom's back or anything. But she did. And how cool is it that said mom has increased her village in this awesome, awesome way? Through a blog of all things?

So shout out to SMILL SMOYNER who saved SMACHARY SMANNING from DYING OF STARVATION AND DEHYDRATION at his camp. And also shout out to every person who has ever had somebody's back and who gives of themselves without making it seem like you owe something.

*ting*

(That was my feel good smile.)

'Preciate you, Smill Smoyner.

Smimberly Smanning aka Said Mom

***
Happy Friday.

Team S.J.G.R. Thursday Huddle: Brave.

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. . . .

Honestly. . . I want to see you be brave.

~ Sara Bareilles

I saw a patient recently that deeply disturbed me.  She was upset about the weight she'd picked up over the last five years and was frustrated with the slowing of her metabolism. But that wasn't the part that bothered me. What dug under my skin was the absolutely horrific way she spoke about herself and the way that no amount of positivity or encouragement could get her to stop.

"I'm a fat ass cow," she said. "I'm never going to meet anybody because I'm undatable. And who would want to date anybody who looked like this?" She grabbed her waistline and shook the excess skin.

What's worse is that there wasn't really too much excess to grab. But even if there was, this was still awfully harsh. Damn, it was. I mean, sure, she could stand to lose a few pounds but no person deserved to be talked about like that. I don't give a damn what size they are.

"I am just wondering," I said carefully. "Why do you speak this way about yourself? Like, if someone spoke this way about your sister or your best friend, what would you say?"

She laughed. "I'd kick their ass. But neither of them is a fat ass slob. I look horrible. I hate how I look. And no matter what I do, nothing works to lose weight."

That's when I gently pointed out that she'd told me that she skips breakfast and eats like a bird at lunch. I tried to encourage her by letting her know that modifying this could improve her metabolism. I showed her some cool smartphone apps like My Fitness Pal and Fooducate. And pulled out all the stops to get her believing that trying a little of this just might help.

But none of that was working. NONE of it. She was caught in a do-loop of self-hate.

Ugh.

My resident had already screened her for depression. And that screen was strongly positive. But when we tried to broach the subject of managing her mood disorder, she shut that down.

"It might make me gain weight," she said.

"But feeling this way can make your energy low. This could actually help."

"I'm scared of that stuff."

"I understand," I replied. "Would you be willing to let us have you see our mental health specialists?"

"You mean a psychiatrist? Oh hells no."

Then she called herself "double wide" and described herself as "nasty-looking." I'd never heard anything more awful said about another person straight to their face. Unless you count those horrid reality shows.

I wondered what would happen if she used all of that same energy to say positive things about herself. To list those "what I love about me" things instead of decimating herself like this. But I realized quickly that this wasn't even in her control. The self-hatred was squashing her and suffocating her from any flicker of daylight.

As I looked back through her chart, I saw that others had explored the diagnosis of a mood disorder with her before. She had shut down depression management over and over again, calling it "voodoo" and "make believe." In her chart you could see that with every year that she went untreated for depression, she gained more weight.

Yep.

So I could go on and on about that unfortunate encounter. Fortunately she wasn't suicidal or homicidal. And we did at least convince her to see a provider in mental health but beyond that she wasn't trying to hear much else.

She also went off on me for not wanting to give her a diet pill by prescription. And even accused me of plotting to keep her looking like a "fat ass cow."

Sigh.

Look--I'm not even sure what my point is of telling you about this. I think it's mostly me wanting to implore everyone who is a member of this team to NOT speak negatively about themselves. But also, I hope anyone who feels depressed will be brave enough to get some help.

Depression impairs so much. And I know for sure that mental health issues are very, very complicated sometimes. But I left that visit thinking about how, how, HOW can I do better as a provider next time? How can I be more helpful, more encouraging, more empowering? Was this totally beyond my level of expertise? I still don't know the answer to any of that.

But let me just say this:

If you are reading this and you are feeling depressed? Or anxious? Or like your only outlet is to mistreat yourself? Please. Do whatever it takes to get some help. Because you deserve to be happy. To be well. To thrive. And to see yourself as worthy of the fat of the land.

The last thing I said to that patient was this:

"You are NOT a cow. Or a double wide. Or nasty looking."

And you know what? I feel certain that, as of the end of that visit, she didn't believe me. Especially because she said she deserved to be on the side of a Chick fil A highway billboard.

So no. She didn't believe me. But you know? I am praying that someday she will.

Yeah.

No matter how grey the clouds, there is still some beauty underneath just waiting to get out.

***
Happy Huddle Day.

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . I love this video because of the self love and bravery it took for these participants to dance like no one was watching. Even though everyone was. Honestly Team S.J.G.R.? I want to see us be brave.

O.M.G.

I didn't grow up going to church. No sheets were ripped off of me on early Sunday mornings nor was I admonished to memorize biblical scriptures as a child. Essentially, our most frequent sermons came from Pastor Pops and Minister Mommy and mostly the message was: Do well in school. Follow our rules. Oh yeah, and try not to get pregnant or arrested before you have enough of your own money to manage it.

That said, there wasn't any active discussion against the idea of there being a God either. Like a lot of people, we pretty much had that inertia-Jesus that many people welcome into their homes. And as a result, we loosely acknowledged that mysterious heavenly father on major holidays. Oh yeah and during really big meals.

In all fairness, I do feel pretty certain that my parents believed that there was indeed some sort of higher power during those years. But as far as this being woven into the fabric of our day to day operations or as some guiding force in the things we did? From my recollection, that part was a no.

Even still, I think always felt connected to religious ideology. From as early as I could remember, I would pray and think and have conversations with God. Not just those prayers where you promise to do better or be better or even the ones where you beg for some very specific outcome in exchange for your first-born child.  No, not those kinds. I guess. . .I don't know. . .I guess I just always had this thing inside of me that made me believe. Regardless of what was happening around me. Even without trying too hard or even when my education reached such levels that many of those in my peer groups became too pragmatic to believe--I always did.

Yep.

My friend Sister Moon wrote this very provocative piece recently about her disbelief in God. And let me be clear: She was thoughtful and smart and real about her feelings. It didn't toss all followers of organized religion into some hokey pile of crazy but instead teased out her immediate thoughts about her not believing in God. She explained her perspective and, since I like to think and hear peoples' viewpoints, I listened. Or rather, read it. Which reminds me: I think it's a good thing to be able to share what you believe or feel without making other people feel like lepers. I'm just saying.

In that piece she said this:

"And to me, it all simply boils down to this- you either have the gene for it or you do not. For religion. And I do not."

That line struck me. I think it did because, even in the absence of parental force, I always felt this innate sense of there being a God. Not in this obligatory sense either. I just always genuinely believed. And it never has felt dubious to me. Even as a child. Which made me wonder whether or not this sort of hunger to know God and seek Him is indeed wired into our DNA.

Hmmm.

I was baptized as a medical student. Dunked under a pool while dressed in a white gown as members of our congregation applauded and shouted hallelujah. I remember it so vividly because it was when I was smack, dab in the midst of studying for boards the summer after my second year. I'd been attending this church that nourished my soul and unlocked some of the things I'd always wondered about. Maybe "unlock" is a strong word but at least it broke things down and provided ways for me to better understand what I was feeling inside. That church also didn't feel polarizing. Which was good for someone like me who was a spiritual toddler.

And so. I guess you can say that I (as the church folks say) accepted Christ in a formal sense in 1994. Twenty years ago this month, actually. But informally, I think my deep down feelings and beliefs were always there. They were.

Over the years, I learned things for myself. I made up my mind about my own beliefs and spoke to God personally about the things that confused me. And I mean it--I spoke to Him and speak to Him on a regular basis. All of it, for me, tied into what I yearned for--a personal relationship with God. And to some this might sound ridiculous. But to me, it has always made perfect sense.

For me, that God reference specifically meant Jesus. Just to be transparent.

Then time passed. I continued to learn and serve and follow but I began to wonder things. Like wonder things about God's will or about whether or not this alleged relationship that I speak of even existed. See, I started to look back over my life and take an inventory. And when I did, I recognized that for the majority of my life, I've had what the church folks call "favor." Good outcomes. Nice parents. Opportunities. Resources. And happy endings. Favor. 

So that, not so much the perils of the world, began to make me question what I believed. I'd sit in a quiet place and start to cry. I'd wonder if this was all in my head or whether or not me and my God even had a relationship at all. "Of course you say you love God," I'd tell myself. "All you know is favor." And that? That would make me sad. And a little bit lonely, too.

But then there would be other times where it would be the opposite. Like, the time that I was driving down the street and heard this song "Golden" by Jill Scott for the first time. In that song she belts out these words:

"I'm strumming my own freedom. . .playing the God in me. . . representing His glory. . .hope He's proud of me. . . .hope He's proud of me!"

And that? That convicted me so deeply and made me cry so hard that I literally had to pull over. Because that? That is how I feel. And how I have always felt from my earliest days. Like each night when my day is done or after I've interacted with someone I'm hoping  that it's something that would make God proud of me. And that's just something that's in me. I've always felt that way. And most days, I'm asking myself and asking God how can I let my light shine? And how can I reflect the very best things about knowing and loving Him without alienating others or making them feel all weird?

Seriously. That's what I wonder.

So yeah. That had been my pendulum. For essentially the majority of my adult life. One minute feeling deeply connected to God and the idea of Him and other times extremely fearful that I was no more than a fair weather friend. And honestly? I can't say for sure that I always knew which was true.

That is, until November 15, 2012. Yes. The worst day of my entire life is also bookmarked as the day I learned for sure that my trust and dependence on the God I believe in is as real as the tree on my front lawn or the sun that is now setting in the sky. It is.

Let me explain: I've said it before but I will say it once more. So many provisions were made for me that evening. So many very, very clear messages sent to me that felt like nothing I'd ever felt in my entire life. But the real, true pivotal time came when Harry called me to tell me that Deanna had never made it to pick up the boys from school. And yes, we've all had those fears that someone hasn't made it home because of some catastrophe. But I tell you--this sense was different. It was intense. And it was as if God himself spoke straight into my ear that evening: "Your sister is gone."

Gone.

And this was before anything at all was confirmed. But right at that moment, I knew. And what happened next is the part that I hold in my heart like the most cherished treasure I've ever had. See what happened next was on instinct. Not me coaching myself or thinking it through or any such thing. It was like a heart beating or a newborn baby turning to suckle on his mother's breast. I stopped my car (yes, I do that from time to time) and sat on the side of the road. And in my most calm voice, I surrendered everything to God. I was fully and completely dependent in that moment. More than I have ever been on any person or thing at any time in my life.

And I said, "Listen God. I feel like You are trying to tell me something. And what I think is that You are letting me know that You have called my sister home to be with You. And let me just say that this is NOT my will. But if for some reason I'm right, then I am telling You that my daddy is usually the person who takes over in these times for our family. But if You have decided to take his child from him? I'm telling You--He won't be able to do that." I took a breath and thought for a moment. Then I went on. "If this is what is about to happen, then I'm telling You right now that I am going to need You to give me marching orders. And to make that happen I'll need peace of mind, an overwhelming sense of calm, and really, God--You'll have to keep my wits so unbelievably about me that I can handle what needs to be handled. My father's AND my mother's business. I mean it.  I need You to show me EXACTLY what to do each step of the way. And I promise that I will listen and pay attention and be obedient."

I felt the tears coming on. I did. But I wasn't done.

"God? Please. Show Yourself. To me. Through me. Show me what you want me to do. Order my steps and make it so clear that it is You that there is no question how it happened. To me especially."

And that was that.

You'd think that I would have felt lonely in that moment. But I didn't. I felt. . .I don't know. . . safe. Protected even. I did. And turning to God in that moment was so primal, so instinctive. Not a literal or a figurative Hail Mary but what felt right and natural and necessary.

Yes. That.

So, of course, there are those questions, right? Like how could a loving God allow some of the things that happen in the world? How? How could He ask for a child or for someone as amazing and beautiful and needed as Deanna? How?

My answer is that I just don't know. I don't. But I also know that His ways are not my ways. So seeking to perfectly understand all that He does sort of puts Him into my playing field. And, again, perhaps this is how I'm genetically wired. But I just don't believe we are the same. I don't know the end of things before the beginning. I don't. And you know? Even when I feel sad and upset with God, in the deepest corners of my soul, I still know. I know that I believe. And that, to me, God is God. Not man and not me. He's God. Which, to me, means that there are TONS of things that we still DO NOT know about His ways and His ultimate vision for so many things but that will hopefully be revealed to us in due time.

Now.

There are certainly some things that I speak to God about all the time. Like equity with people and how being accepting and loving is, I believe, more like Him than leaving people out and making them feel like outcasts. I recognize that it could possibly be necessary for me to reconcile some things that I believe are just human rights and that, to me, aren't because of some faulty wiring. And sure, some of my peers of Christian faith might not agree with me on that. But see, to me, my faith--or even religion--comes down to my relationship with God. I'm okay with the fact that we'll have to hash some things out. I am. In every single important relationship that I am in, that is something that happens. So it feels natural to me that God and I will have some ongoing and sometimes difficult dialogue.

But maybe--just maybe--it won't be difficult at all. Like, just maybe, maybe he'll be cool with these things--more cool than anyone realizes, even me. Perhaps He could care less if I take the kids trick or treating or if I attend my dear friends' commitment ceremony or even wedding when those friends share the same gender. Maybe. And hey--maybe He'll be furious with me. But I recognize that that is between me and Him. Period.

And no, I don't need anyone to tell me what the bible says on all of that. I don't. So there.

I guess, for me, God is love. And love is inclusion and understanding and respect. Period, end of story. That's my story and I'm sticking to it. And I don't think that snatches me from the loving arms of God because I do.

Yeah. So honestly? It feels so out of my own control really. My belief in God is as much a part of me as being black or being goofy or loving my family. It's non-negotiable and not even something I have to  force. It never has been. Perhaps it's just that I have the gene.

Maybe. Maybe not. And maybe none of this ramble even makes sense. But that's fine, too, since a lot of people don't think that any of this belief in God stuff does.

Either way, no matter what--I will continue to strum my own freedom and play the God in me. . .representing His glory and hoping--and praying--that when all is said and done that He's proud of me. That's what I believe.

Yeah.

***
Happy Hump Day.

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . this. . .a neo-soul song that is as intensely gospel as it gets for me.



. . .and this. . . I can listen to her voice all day. Sigh.



And lastly, this. . . an old gospel hit that has always given me solace, quieted my soul and reminded me that His ways are not my ways. Particularly the part that says, "Because He's sovereign. God is God." And I get it that this doesn't resonate with a lot of people. But it resonates with me.

Recent images of This American Life.

Here are the boys getting hair cuts. The BHE believes in teaching boys how to become men who care about the impressions they make. That means staying groomed and neat, that is, to whatever degree is possible at this age. I love that he does that.

I don't love what plays on the televisions in there. But I do like the way Harry has taught them to look their barbers in the eye, hand them the money and shake their hands. I never go with them but on this day Harry had a conflict. The whole thing was on autopilot. Those boys knew what to do because their daddy taught them.

Isaiah's Native American project. He chose to study the Creek (Muscogee) Nation. Grandma Shug came over and literally saved the day. She had every craft material you could imagine. She even helped Isaiah make that lake by heating up glue sticks on the stove top and adding blue food coloring to them. He was so, so proud of that project. It's a blessing to have a mom (and grandmother) who has a knack for helping kids do amazing things without completely usurping the process. He was proud because HE did it. I was proud, too.

 

Zachary went rock wall climbing with his Jack and Jill grade group recently. Those kids were fearless. I even climbed a few times, too. It was great exercise and a lot of fun.

This is my hairstylist Sakinah and me poking fun at her crack-tacular iPhone. She dropped it over a year ago and every week I tease her about it not being replaced or fixed. It's now such a part of our routine. "I just don't care about it enough to pay all that money," she says. "And it doesn't stop anyone from calling me and begging me to fit them in." She's right about that.

Speaking of Sakinah. . .we celebrated her birthday last week. A bunch of us from the salon who have been coming to her for ten plus years. It's funny how we are all like a family in that place now. The woman beside her in the image above is Yandi, her best friend and co-owner. It's hard for me to believe that I've known these girls since they'd just finished cosmetology school and become of legal drinking age. I am so glad to know them.

I was just thinking of something. In the nearly thirteen years that Sakinah has been cutting my hair, I have never once been disappointed. Not once. In fact, I usually sleep while she snips because I trust her so much. She intuitively knows what to do. Like, when I need to be fancy or when I just want the basics. She was the one who nudged me to stop coloring and allow my grey hair to come in. And the one who helps me decide on "a little shorter" or "a little more bangs" or "a little bit messy-chic" or "just neat." Our dialogue is rarely about my hair. She just knows. That's a blessing.

 

Here's a picture from the Sundresses and Seersuckers party Harry's fraternity sponsors every year. It was unseasonably cool but I am a big believer in suffering for fashion. My girlfriend Akima said I looked "Gone with the Wind fabulous" on this picture. And my other girlfriend said it was "Marilyn Monroe but without the panties showing." Ha. 

Zachary picked out my earrings. You can see from the prior photos that I liked them. He was the one who suggested a "whole 'nother color" with my dress. He is his father's child for sure. 

I had applied some strip eyelashes all by myself. You can't all the way see them here, but it was a pop of fun for sure. 

Here I am with my girls doing a "sultry squint." I am not sure how sultry we look. That's Akima with the red lip. She was pretty damn "Gone with the Wind" fab herself. 

Zachary asked me to play twenty-one with him.  I said yes.

He won. But only by one point.

I had to schlep the boys with me to a recent meeting at the Medical School. They were thrilled to be there. Can't you tell?

An outfit so nice. . .I wore it twice. Ha. Um yes. This was an entirely different event.

The man next to the BHE in this photo is Shannon J. He's been Harry's best friend for what feels like ever. They went to the same high school in Cleveland, Ohio, then to the same college in Virginia, then pledged Omega Psi Phi Fraternity together in the same pledge class. If that weren't enough, they both went to the Army, both attained qualification as Rangers, and both were pretty much bad ass stand outs in every assignment they had.

At the ten year mark, Harry chose to honorably leave and join civilian life. Shannon stayed on as a career military officer. Last weekend we shot up to the Nation's capitol and celebrated Shannon as he eases into the non-military world. He has officially retired and, if you know anything about the military, this is a huge deal. That meant a party.

As for my dress repeat, for the most part, nobody at the other party was at this one. Well. Except for the one couple (also our good friends) who came to both events in Atlanta and Washington D.C. And wouldn't you know that they were the first ones I ran into when we walked in? Ha. How funny the way things like that can be.

Oh well. How can a sister not rewear an outfit dubbed as "Gone with the Wind fabulous?" I'm just saying. Besides, I did add in Michelle's funky turquoise bracelets this time around. They looked so awesome on her at our tenth anniversary party that I figured we'd just keep them in rotation.

Yup. I ain't 'shamed.

Speaking of Michelle. . . . man. It's a huge blessing to have become such close friends with the wife of my husband's very best friend. Michelle J. is an awesome confidant, a ton of fun, a superb mommy/wife role model and a person who loves my family just as much as I do. It also doesn't hurt that she's a Delta girl and a Jack and Jill mom to boot. These sorts of things don't always line up this perfectly. But this time, it did.

We had some fun Delta versus AKA banter. . . .

And what a treat--my sweet Davina (C.J.'s mommy) was there, too along with her hubby Ced.

 

So yeah. That weekend was super fun across the board. And despite my fab dress repeat, Michelle was definitely the belle of that ball in her ultra fierce slip dress. No question. Gone with the Wind fabulous even.

Ha.

This woman is Sonya M. She reads this blog and, as a result, suggested my name as a speaker for a medical symposium at University of Tennessee Medical Center where she works. The talk went great and the audience was amazing. (The honorarium wasn't too bad, either.) I love how this blog has blurred into my professional life and has led to such great opportunities on that front. But at it's core, it's still about relationships. So meeting her was my favorite part.

Well this right here? Ultra cool. Okay, so this book is an anthology that The Annals of Internal Medicine and The American College of Physicians puts out periodically. They take some selected narratives published in the journal over a five year period and compile them in a "best of" volume. A few months ago, I received the exciting news that one of my narratives was chosen to be included in the 4th edition.

So it came in the mail on Tuesday. I quickly opened it and was surprised to find this narrative in there--a different title than the one I'd been notified about. I shrugged and assumed it was an error. And it was fine because, actually, I loved this narrative about my late colleague Ildefonso T. who'd passed away a few years back.

Imagine my shock when I perused the table of contents and found not one. . .not two. . .but THREE of my essays listed there! I'd only been notified of the one. And no other author in the book had that distinction.

Now. I will go on record saying that I do believe that I'm a good writer. I work at it and I think it has improved into something I can be proud of.  And I don't mean to say that in a snotty or self important way. I just believe that we should all try to find our gifts and use them. Deanna always told me that writing and speaking and encouraging people were mine. So I believe her and try to use them and not lose them.

That said. . . .this kind of affirmation of my writing caused me to break down crying. I'm not kidding. I saw the second one and pumped my fist. But when I saw my name a third time? I just couldn't believe it. I cried and cried. Partly because I wanted to tell Deanna but mostly because I felt really happy.

That book is filled with pages and pages of brilliant writing. I mean it. To be among them is a dream come true. You can order the book here if you're interested. My mom has already read the whole book and said she could barely put it down. As soon as she gives it back to me, I'm going to read the whole thing, too. :)

My boys swimming with their godbrother, Colin while we were up in D.C. Those kids have so much fun together. As you can see, summer has officially entered the building.

Isaiah was "friend of the week" this month in school. As a part of it, the class makes a life sized picture of you and everyone writes kind affirmations about why you're a great friend around it. I love this and especially loved how happy it made my son.

I moved him to that school this year--away from the one he was formerly in with Zachary. It was hard decision. Something about this picture let me know that this was the right thing. It was.

Zachary and his sister Fiona lighting sparklers. Yes, they are still siblings.

My boys after a run with me. They wanted to do the "jump picture." This was the result.

And lastly, this. A date night with the BHE who I love more than ever.

That's all I've got for now.

***
Happy Sunday.