I went to a Christian Family bookstore to buy a copy of “The Purpose Driven Life” leather bound journal on sale. As usual, I came away with much more than I bargained for.

While standing at the counter to pay for the journal, impatiently awaiting a store clerk’s attention, I noticed Juanita Bynum’s newest book and began browsing through it.  I grew more impatient, however, as the clerk continued chatting with a customer on the other side of the sales counter. A customer was asking about books and movies to reach her friends who were not Christian. She wanted to give them her beliefs in a way they might accept them. It didn’t sound like they would be ending their chat anytime soon, so I rudely interrupted them.

“Um, excuse me. Is anyone working the register?” I yelled across the counter.

I realized I was being rude, but I had half a dozen tasks on my to-do list, and I needed to complete my errands and be home in time for a scheduled call. The clerk explained that his colleague was handling a UPS delivery and would return to the counter to ring me up soon. I sighed in frustration, but decided to make the best use of that time waiting by reading a couple pages in Bynum’s book.

By the time the store clerk arrived to ring up my purchase, I had calmed down. She smiled and apologized for the delay. She explained that the book I was browsing was on sale for $5, and the books and movies on the table behind me were $5, too.  I grabbed a movie I had wanted to give as a gift.

“Five dollars?” I asked, holding up a copy of the movie, “Fire Proof.” I remembered that most sales like this have limits, though.

“How many can I get?” I asked the clerk.

“As many as you want,” she answered, still smiling.

I bought the journal I went in for, paid $5 for Juanita Bynum’s new book, and $5 for the movie I had wanted but thought I could not afford.

“Have a blessed day,” the woman said as I turned to leave.

“I already am,” I told her, returning her smile. “You just blessed me in more ways than you know.”

As I was leaving I noticed a small child standing in line with her mother. The child couldn’t have been older than three or four.

“Look at her! She’s so… patient!” I said to the mother, who also was standing their patiently waiting her turn, holding a baby in her arms.

As I walked back to my car I thought about when I became so impatient. I certainly had not been born that way – or raised that way. I had worked in rush-rush-deadline-driven professions.  As a news reporter everything had to be done in a hurry. As a Congressional communications director media requests had to be acknowledged, processed, scheduled, and completed quickly. My paycheck – livelihood – depended on it. Rush. Rush. Now. Now.

My days don’t have to be rushed right now. Could it have been God’s divine order to slow me down and bring me back to my senses? Perhaps. Rush-rush-do-it-now…or not!

Are you the one in line in a hurry, or the one standing waiting patiently? Is your rushing a force of habit? Are you trying to do too much in too little time? Can you get off the treadmill? Have you stopped to think of what you might be missing in the rush of it all?

Initially published early September 2011

I returned to my favorite local beach last weekend to make sure it was still in tact after a mild earthquake, a near-historic hurricane, and a week of flooding rains hit. Yep. It was still there, its adjoining park freshly manicured, greener and more lush than during the dogged days of August. I watched a dozen children frolicking in the river.

“It feels good!” one boy of about eleven reported, welcoming his friend.

A butterfly fluttering by caught my attention and I considered that in a couple of weeks summer will end and the butterflies and other summer pleasures will be gone. I enjoyed this beach, Hillsmere Beach, a community beach located in Anne Arundel.

Swoosh…

The swoosh…swoosh of the river licking the shore, the tweets and intermittent squawks of the birds mingled with the children’s delight, sounding off a perfect concert bidding farewell to the season.

A boy, who appeared to be a pre-teen, rode up on his bike and was greeted with a dare by his friends. He had gone home to change into swim trunks, and returned ready to take on the river. He rode his bike to the rockiest edge, and his friends dared him to jump off the rocks.

I noticed a slimy film in one area and wondered how the children could have so much fun in such obviously filthy water. They were careless and carefree.  Watching them, I was reminded of the joys of youthful oblivion. They did not care about foul fish, possibly dead fish in the water or water snakes or dangerous sea creatures.

The boy on the bike looked over the rocks debating only how he would enter the water – off the rocks on off the smooth sands.

“We saw a jelly fish this big,” one of the friends said. The boy on the bike seemed undaunted.  “My sister will give you $25 if you jump in,” the friend added.

Privately, I bet the boy on the bike would take the dare. I was happy when he thought better of it. He parked his bike, pulled on his goggles and waded safely in off the sand.

After a rather stressful week in a new job, I felt refreshed just watching the children splash and swim and pull and tug on each other in the water. I wished the Anacostia River in my hometown, D.C., was clean enough to refresh a community. I can do more than wish for this, thanks to organizations currently working to clean and restore the Anacostia River. I can join – and invite you all to join – upcoming clean-up campaigns.

A few weeks ago I was rushing back from the store to catch a Joel Osteen sermon on TV, but my little patch of yard in front of the townhouse caught my attention.  I decided to stop and pull weeds before going into the house. In the next hour, as I pulled weeds, so many thoughts crossed my mind I found myself in prayer right there in the dirt. Certain thoughts occurred.

“It’s best to pull weeds up from the roots so they don’t grow back,” I thought as I pulled carefully. Then I wondered, “What beliefs are my problems rooted in? Isn’t it time to uproot some of those old beliefs?”

I grew up in the 70s when Black power nationalist rhetoric had us not only questioning “The System,” but challenging it. This was necessary at the time. It afforded me opportunities to work, live, shop, and eat in places that otherwise would have remained off limits to me and other non-whites. But it is time I release some of that suspicion that everything about and everyone in “the system” is designed for my exploitation and early demise.

I considered beliefs I had about marriage that probably need to be uprooted. Beliefs I have about organized religion. It’s time to plant new seeds.

As I was pulling weeds, I remembered something someone told me about weeds: weeds can spring from seeds blown into your garden by the wind. I realized, too, that in my life new problems will occur, some of my own making and some brought in from influences, comments, and actions beyond my control. “Just be prepared to pull the weeds again,” I thought.

I stuffed weeds and the roots into a garbage bag, and stepped back to survey my handy work. I decided to plant pretty flowers around the bushes so weeds won’t be the only things catching my attention. I stood there in the silence of the Sunday morning and in my heart I prayed:

“God I thank You for making me aware that I must, as often as necessary, weed the garden of my life, pulling out the weeds of doubt (self-doubt and doubt blown into my consciousness by others).  Thank You for helping me weed out despair and disappointment so they do not choke the life out of my field of faith.

“God thank You for making me aware that I must intentionally plant the colorful flowers I prefer (the flowers of success in family relations, finances, professional pursuits). Thank You for reminding me to water and weed and fully appreciate the garden of my life.”

Imagine that you woke up one morning with a serious jones for a jolt of caffeine from the nearby store where you can get your favorite shot for a-buck-o-nine.  You scoop up fifty cents you had left on your dresser, search your purse for two quarters and a dime you thought you saw there the day before, but you come up short. Your purse has only a quarter, two dimes, and three pennies. Not to worry. You are sure you must have a few coins left over in your other pocketbooks, so you go to your closet and frantically search all twelve of your purses. You find a penny. You are still short a few coins.

You wanted your morning caffeine fix, but now you really need it. You consider dipping into the digital coin bank you and your husband share, but you have agreed to the rule of never taking anything out of this bank until it reaches the $100 mark and you take these coins to the bank together to deposit them in your joint account.  You consider using one of the rare $2 bills you have received over the years on special occasions. You decide against it because you don’t really want to exchange a rare currency for something as common as a morning fix.

You decide to use the coffee you have at home instead of wasting more time searching for coins to get flavored coffee at the store around the corner.  After you gulp down the coffee, you feel satisfied, sure that the caffeine will kick in almost instantly. You dart out the front door for your morning power walk around the neighborhood. But first, you grab your iPod from your car parked out front.  As you exit your car, you notice a dollar bill on the ground. You pick it up and wish you had found it a half hour earlier when you were frantically searching for change for a morning cup of coffee. You feel like you are luckier than if you had found a penny because you have found a whole dollar.

You begin your power walk happily, then you notice something shiny on the ground. It’s a quarter. Now you have a dollar and a quarter that have been coincidentally dropped in your path for you to find. You have taken this power walk every morning for several years but never found any money. Yet, you found some this morning, of all mornings. The irony makes you smile. There must be a message in this for you.  You think back over everything that has happened this morning from the time you realized you needed a buck-o-nine for a cup of coffee until the time you found a dollar and a quarter. What do you think the God/The Universe was trying to tell you through this experience?

One morning recently I woke up feeling particularly lousy, depressed, dreadful.  I had dreamt crazy, anxiety dreams all night and lamented the day ahead.  Then I was reminded that my grandmother used to tell me, “don’t look at what you don’t have. Thank God for what you do have.”

I began counting my blessings.  I thanked God that I could get myself out the bed rather than having to wait for someone to carry me to the bathroom. I thanked God for my health and mobility.  I remembered that a friend of mine is struggling to see, and thanked God that I do not have that challenge. I lay still fifteen minutes thanking God for many things. I got out of bed feeling much better, and by mid-morning I was actually excited about many possibilities for the day and for the near future.

As I showered, I began thinking about prayers long-ago prayed and long-ago answered. I felt even better. Throughout the day songs on gospel radio reminded me to “take the shackles off my feet so I can dance.”  I sat on my front steps and simply enjoyed the brightness of the sun and the sound of the birds.

In the evening, I got a few good laughs from a sit-com I had long-ago labeled sheer buffoonery, “Sanford and Son,” which my grandmother loved. Around dinnertime, I realized I had a wide variety of meal choices. I could pull food from the fridge or freezer, or go to one of more than a dozen restaurants within a five-mile radius.  I could go to one of more than five grocery stores or one of the half a dozen fast-food places nearby. And, as broke as I felt, I had enough money in my purse to eat anything I wanted. I could even go to a seafood market and order fresh shrimp or crabs. I was satisfied with a salad I made from ingredients I already had.

Why couldn’t I appreciate the richness of my choices? Why shouldn’t I appreciate the various manners of richness I already have (spiritual growth), rather than bemoan the riches (financial abundance) I still crave?

After dinner, I retreated to the deck with my journal and decided to begin sorting through the thoughts that made me sad or left me feeling defeated.

I began acknowledging lessons learned from failures. How much longer would I measure my happiness by the amount of cash on hand or the amount of money I was making on a job? Why had I become so angry and anxious that angry and anxious thoughts ran rampage through the night draining restfulness from my sleep?

Being unemployed, I realized, means I have a wealth of time on my hands to apply for jobs, in the process becoming clear about my strengths and weaknesses, and beginning to fully appreciate the skills and experiences I have mastered over the years.

I labeled a section of my journal for recording blessings only, determined to jot down notes of gratitude frequently.

My grandmother planted those seeds of gratitude in my youth. I am now noticing flowers I had been overlooking in my constant rush for the next best thing.

Let’s share some gratitude today. What are you grateful for today? Tell us the first thing that comes to mind.

“We know we are beautiful. And ugly too…. We stand on top of the mountain, free within ourselves.”

–Langston Hughes

BET’s “Black Girls Rock” awards show broadcast Sunday inspired me to honor my grandmothers, who raised me to rock. I grew up with three grandmothers – a hint of abundance from the start, I think. I had mymaternal grandmother, Irene Thomas, recently anointed as First Mother of Tenth Street Baptist Church in Northwest; my paternal grandmother, Sis. Wala Waheed (Willie Tate), honored as a pioneer in the Nation of Islam by the Muslim community at Masjid Muhammad. Then there was my biological grandmother, Grandma Fuller, who told me religion was some silly s*-)!

Some of their insight, wisdom, and advice were clear and powerful enough to last me a lifetime; some of it I knew would not fit the world they were leaving in my hands.

Grandma Thomas and I debated the merits of dating vs. marriage.  This year we celebrated her marriage 72 years of marriage to my grandfather.  But ten years ago, she and I debated the merits of marriage vs. dating. I was a young woman playing the field – and getting played – when she offered her advice on marriage and men. “Men have to get a license to go fishing, go hunting or anything else they want to do. Make them get a license to be with you,” she told me one day. Confidently, I disagreed, “Grandma I am not a sport, nothing to be played with, not to be owned.” She shook her head, at her wit’s end. I ended up married, but in my own time and on my own terms, I’d like to think. Our needs and values were different, I realized, and that’s o.k.

GrandWillie had hung a small wooden plaque inscribed with the words, “Man Makes the Living: A Woman Makes Life Worth Living,” in her home when I was growing up. After a few years of being out in the real world I reported back to her that this bit of conventional wisdom had been set on its head. “Men these days aren’t marrying women unless you’re making at least as much as they make,” I told her. “That ain’t no real man,” she insisted. She had been widowed by her first husband, then managed to live mostly off his pension, plus money she made providing child care for other working mothers, and help from her own children when they began working. My appreciation of independence and self-reliance was different from hers, and that, too, was o.k.

I learned much from and with my grandmothers. Over board games, on shopping trips, at religious events, in their gardens, in their kitchens, at their hospital bedsides when they grew old, I learned more than I might ever pen. My relationship with them was better than their relationships with their own daughters. I was their second chance to get it right, and they seized upon it. I am sure GrandWillie, who passed almost three years ago, is smiling on me daily. Grandma Thomas, who turned 92 this year, tells me often, “I love you, and I pray for you every day. I pray for all my grandchildren.” I am sure she does.

While I have honored Grandma Thomas and GrandWillie throughout my life, I am just now beginning to glorify Grandma Fuller. Grandma Fuller had 11 babies by a married man. I am leading the charge to dignify her passions, however, unwise they were. She married her “babies’ daddy” when the youngest was a teen.  “Grandma was a ho,” one of my sisters said flatly when I shared this bit of our family history. She was not a “whore,” I insisted. “She was, uh, unconventional.”  She loved who she loved, how she loved, I thought. I had the luxury of marveling at her boldness in love. She had birthed wonderful beings into this world – against so many odds.  (It took her children a whole generation and a lot of hard work to overcome the shame of growing up “bastards.” About ten years ago they initiated the Annual Fuller Family Ball to amplify family honor and celebrate what we have become. But for me, she had set a mold for thinking – and being – outside the box.)

My grandmothers were each unique in their needs, beliefs, and family values. I could not possibly have embraced all of what either had to offer, but I am grateful to have collected enough pearls of wisdom from each of them to fashion a fine necklace of sorts.

I was happy to see Patti LaBelle, Gladys Knight, and Shirley Ceasar, honored on BET’s “Black Girls Rock.” But I found conspicuously absent our honorary grandmother, Maya Angelou, whose poems “Phenomenal Woman” and “Still I Rise” inspired us all. Langston Hughes’s manifesto came to mind as I thought about my Grandmothers – and the many other women (sisters, friends, aunts, and mentors) who have inspired me throughout my life. I am their rock, and they are mine. Black women are complex beings. We are beautiful in our ugliness and ugly in our beauty. But we rock on.