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I have been weeping, for hours. Point of fact, I have been crying, since Ahmad Arbery, was gunned down. I have been boohooing, since Breonna Taylor was gunned down. I have been lamenting, since Christian Cooper, was targetted for watching a damned bird! I have been sobbing, since George Floyd, was gunned down. Now, I cry for Rayshard Brooks. I have been crying, for years, for ALL the lives, senselessly taken. SENSELESSLY!

I cry with EVERY excuse folks rush to give, whenever, yet another, POC life is taken. The rush: to make an excuse, to give a way out, to destroy a character. I weep/rage because POC lives are not enough to illicit sympathy. Our existence, appears not to be enough. We have to be one of the ‘good black/brown people’. As if, the rest of us, are trash, that can EASILY be taken/discarded/dismissed. Just typing these words, sets me off, yet again, to weep/rage. Our lives DO matter. They do. They should.

These tears, are exhausting. I long, for the day, when they are no longer, necessary. Folks celebrated Juneteenth. The day slaves were Emancipated. That said, were POC every truly emancipated? Are we free? I think not. Just typing these words, sets me off, yet again, to weep/rage. These tears, are exhausting.

I want, to dry my eyes. I want, to climb down from this wall where I have been shouting/crying/raging, for someone to hear/see/do. Yet, I can’t. I cry, for those who can no longer, shed a tear. I cry, for those who have lost loved ones. I cry, for those who have given up. I cry, for those who still don’t seem to give a damn. I cry, for justice, knowing there will NEVER be true justice, as those lives will never return.

If only, there was someone, who would take my place, on this wall, and weep for those who can no longer weep. If only, there was somebody, who would take a turn and cry, for someone else’s child. It’s easy to cry, for your own. I cry, so that yours may be safe, may be free. I cry, and pray, pray, and cry, in order for ALL to have rest, to KNOW freedom. I shall continue, to cry, until the Flag COVERS US ALL.

Will someone cry these tears, for me?

I’m exhausted. Have been exhausted since watching 8:46. Truth be told, I have been exhausted, for the past 51 years. Tonight, I was talking to a black male friend of mine. He shared how EXHAUSTING it was, living in this world, as a black man. I shared how utterly EXHAUSTING, it is, having to live in this world, as a black woman. For him, he is viewed as a THUG. For me, I am viewed as an ANGRY, BLACK WOMAN. Dammit, I AM angry. I have every right to be. I am soooooooooo truly angry that our precious KINGS, are viewed as no more than THUGS and trifling.

Most black/brown men, would give you the shirt off his back. And, they have done so, many times. Most black/brown women, would run through a wall to fight for ALL children. And, we don’t discriminate. We would, beat the holy hell out of ANY that would cause harm, to a child.

I wish that. Dammit, I am TIRED OF WISHING!!!!!

I’m exhausted…..sigh….I’m exhausted. I can’t breathe. Alas, I shall, scrape my tired/troubled heart, from off the floor and will post these words to as many places as I can. In hopes, that folks will see. Hell, in hopes that WHITE America, CORPORATE America, will read these words, hear, act and tell me that Black Lives Matter, that MY life matters. I am highly exhausted, and ticked off, that I find myself, STILL waiting for America to make me free.

ENOUGH ALREADY!! Alas, I reread these words, and find myself hopeful, yet again, that somebody, somewhere, somehow, is listening and will do something, dammit! Exhausting. Think I will post this, to my blog, and call it…..Exhausting.

To be continued…

😦

Mama, your silence, is deafening. Watching them lower your casket, into a cold and unforgiving earth, I raged, silently, knowing I would never hear your voice. Never is such a long time. Never again, will I be able to call you, never to lay my head on your round and warm tummy. I rage, still, with the utter heartbreak/despair. I will NEVER see you again, will never be comforted: by your words, your warmth, your love and you wit. I would give anything, mama, to hear your voice, to be with you, again.

George Floyd, your silence, is deafening. Watching them lower your casket, into a cold and unforgiving earth, I raged, loudly, knowing your family would never hear your voice. Never is such a long time. I wept, thinking of your children, your wife, your siblings, cousins and friends, who can never call you, never be comforted by your presence. I rage, still, with utter heartbreak/despair. Your loved ones were robbed! They will NEVER see you again, will never be comforted: by your words, your warmth, your love and you wit. George Floyd, cried out for his mama, with his dying breaths. Mama. He cried out, for his mama, as I cried out, for mine. Mama. Your silence, is deafening. Still.

Breonna Taylor, your silence, is deafening. Hearing how your life was taken, as you lay innocently, in your bed, I wept, bitterly, knowing your family would never hear your voice, again. I wept, thinking of those who can never call you, never be comforted by your presence. I rage, still,with utter heartbreak/despair. You were robbed! Of the opportunity to walk down an aisle, bear children and watch them, walk down an aisle. Never is such a long time. I wonder, Breonna, if you had time, to call out, for your mama.

White America/Corporate America/Evangelical America, your silence, is deafening. Hearing, George Floyd, cry out for his mama. Seeing, all the lives senselessly/needlessly taken, for no reason, other than the color of their brown/black skin, I weep bitterly, knowing their families will never be comforted. I rage, still, with the knowledge of THOUSANDS of precious souls, robbed of the chance to live, thrive and grow. THEY WERE ROBBED!!! I wonder, how many cried, for mama. I wonder, if you cared. You cared for 8:46, of silence, then. Your silence, now, is deafening.

Mama, hearing George Floyd, calling for mama, had me crying out for you. Crying out, mama, because that could have been me, or one of my siblings, cousins, or friends. Mama, WHERE ARE THE MAMAS!?

Mamas, YOUR silence IS deafening. Where are our white mamas? Where are our Christian Mamas? Why isn’t EVERY mama, out there, raging/crying/grieving with me?!

Until EVERY child can: jog freely down a street, watch a bird, have a picnic, sell a bottle of water, walk down ANY neighborhood street, obtain a business loan, attend a well-outfitted school, have a grocery store with fresh fruit in their neighborhood, be seen and BELIEVED by a doctor, be welcomed onto the golf course and into the country club, ushered into the boardroom, able to call the police without fear, express themselves without having to monitor facial expressions/voice tones, wear whatever clothes they want WHERE they want to wear them, adorn themselves/their hair in whatever manner they see fit, go to a hospital to give birth and come home alive and with a newborn, be paid what they are worth, not have to work ten times as hard for one tenth the return, enjoy the fruits of their labors, participate in the stock market, able to purchase/own home in a thriving neighborhood/community, purchase a car based upon their income and not the color of their skin, be believed when they say they have been hurt/abused/looked over/dismissed/discriminated against, enter this country to take advantage of the safety of the Flag, looked at as an equal and not a servant/subservient/less than/less qualified, attend ANY college and live in ANY neighborhood and be welcomed with open arms, protected/not locked in cages as children/adults, able to travel the world and return home without fear/threat then NO CHILD IS TRULY FREE. Mama, I don’t understand why all the mamas, out there, are silent. You would be weeping, with me. As would George Floyd’s mama. Why aren’t ALL the mamas weeping?

Mamas, especially white mamas, YOUR silence is deafening. Mamas, YOUR silence, have allowed so very many children to go homeless, to be locked in cages, to go to rundown schools, to go hungry, to die in childbirth, to be held down for 8:46. Mamas, had you been crying out, for ALL children, maybe, just maybe, some of these POC may not have died. Maybe, had more mamas, told their sons/daughters that Black Lives truly does Matter, that those 8:46 may never have happened. Ahmad Arbery, may still be jogging down a street. Breonna Taylor, may still be helping others…

Mama, I used to wonder how White America, Christian America, could not/would not see, what their brown/black brothers and sisters, have been going through, all these years. I don’t wonder now. Mamas saw, then. Mamas see, now. Then, mamas CHOSE silence, in order to protect their child’s spot and lot in life. Now, mamas see. I don’t know what, if anything, mamas will do/say. Will mamas continue to jealously guard their child’s spot, mama?

Mama, will she, put herself, in George Floyd’s mama spot? Will she, look down in horror, thinking ‘he could have been my son?!’ White America, he will NEVER be your son. Why? Because, you live, in a world, where the color, of your skin, affords you a ride home, instead of a shot in the back. The color, of your skin, allows you the benefit of the doubt. The color, of your skin, grants you, the privilege: to own, not rent; to lend, not borrow; to run, not walk; to be served, not serve. The color, of YOUR skin, has afforded YOUR children, the ability to reign and roam. The only cost to you, in your estimation, was your silence. Your silence, has allowed your family to thrive/prosper, at the expense of POC children/livelihood. I wonder, if the silence is still worth it. I wonder…

Mama, your silence is deafening. I no longer know how to maneuver in a world without your voice. Who will listen to mine? I have shouted, for 51 years, to be heard. I have asked America, many times, through tears/exhaustion, if black lives matter, if MY life matters. The silence, mama, has been deafening. The silence hurts. I used to be able to ignore the silence. 8:46 stole that delusion, from me. Mama, what do I do with this silence? Mama. Mama. I STILL hear, George Floyd, calling out for his mama. I, STILL, cry out for mine.

Mamas: YOUR silence, is deafening. America needs you. I need you. POC need you. All my white friends champion me. They pat me, on the back, and tell me to ‘keep on speaking’. They rah rah and tell me to ‘keep on educating white folk’. They tell me they wish there was something they could do. They lament and rend their clothing. They say they don’t get involved, because it’s ‘not their problem’ to solve. They say they turn off the ‘bad coverage’ because it is ‘just too hard to watch’. Try living it 24/7. I can’t breathe.

“MAMA!!”

😦

#BlackLivesMatter

Full disclaimer: Jesus is My Homie. My Bestie. I kick it, with him, on the daily. I yak at/with Him, incessantly. I ‘hit Him up’, as the young folk say, throughout the day. Don’t tell Jesus that I put Him on blast. But…..*looks around discreetly*. Jesus is a BIG gossip. Yep, He and I talk, endlessly, about all of life’s goings on. Okay, I mostly talk, and He listens.

For the life of us, we can NOT understand why folks are so afraid to get to know Him. I think it’s because the world has tried to paint Him as some task master. Do this and don’t do that. Think this way, and you had best NOT think that other way! Dress like this, good grief, don’t dress like THAT!…*gasp*. Go to this particular house of worship. By the by, you are NOT to be inter-mingling with THAT group of believers. They don’t believe, in the correct manner, don’tcha know?…smh…

Jesus and I feel extremely sorry for some ‘Christian folk’ who have robbed themselves of the AWESOME opportunity, to get to know and love gay folk. Gay peep are some of the most loving, loyal and funny people, you will ever meet. Funny in a ‘haha’ way. I had a really close friend, or so I thought, kick me to the curb, just because I said ‘that’s really messed up that so and so was denied insurance just because she was gay. This ‘friend’ told me that I had a ‘problem’ and never spoke to me again. That was 20 years ago, and still no sign/word from her. She loved Jesus, of course…..*sigh*…

We are also terribly troubled, and saddened, by the current events. I am a POC, person of color. I work hard. I love hard. I have never been to jail. I am not a thief. I try not to take up too much space. I love folks/peep. I love to learn. I love to laugh. I love to get to know folk. Yet, I, and other POC, are personna non gratta, here in America. Jesus feels super sorry for those who are afraid to get to know people like me….*sigh*….okay, I shall admit that I am sad/disheartened, that there are many, many folks who hate me, just because….hell, I don’t know why folks have, and still do, hate POC. I have no earthly idea why they believe I am in ‘their country’ and should not be ‘in THEIR neighborhood’. Last I checked, the USA belonged to all of us. At least, it is supposed to.

Alas, I digress. I started this post asking the question “What’s up with all this God stuff?” Folks wonder where God is, during tough times. They wonder, if, or how, there can even BE a God and allow all of these horrible things to take place.

Believe me, I have had many a knock down, drag out fight, with God, crying, hollering, raging and DEMANDING to know why He puts up with all this!?

WHY, WON’T YOU STOP ALL THIS????!!!!! WHY, O, WHY, DID YOU ALLOW GEORGE FLOYD TO LEAVE HERE LIKE THAT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I must admit, my conversations, with Jesus, have been tear-filled. My conversations, with God, the Father, have been heated, they have been angry. I am hurt. I can’t breathe. I am His daughter. George Floyd, was His son. Why, did you allow him to leave here, and go to You, that way? Why, have You allowed POC to be treated so horribly? Why other races? Why, hurt and wars and destruction. He has not answered, yet. Okay, I am not speaking to Him. Not today. Am hurt/angry/discouraged today.

So, I talk to Jesus. I cry with Him. He cries with me. We cry, together. Jesus, holds me, and understands my upset. He understands my bewilderment, about God. For, He knows that where He, Jesus is, there the Father is, also. I respect God. He is a tough. He allows us to rant and rave. And, loves us still. Wow. God STILL loves me. God loves ME! He loves me, when I am angry. Loves me, when I am sad. Loves me, always.

The Bible says that NOTHING can separate us, from the love of God. God, I surely need you to love me now. Still, I ask, today……’what’s up with all this God stuff?

Until He answers, I invite you, to have a yak with Jesus. If you don’t know Him, hit Him up. If you are not ‘christian’ or have another faith. That’s okay. Hang out with us, anyway, as you will meet up with Him, sooner or later. He loves you. He is there for you. Jesus has got your back. I pray for each and every person, within the sound of my voice, or those in view of this post. We got this.

Let’s keep talking to each other. Let’s get to know folks, of different stripes and walks of life. None of us will get out of this life, alive. In the meantime, let’s make it through: together. I love you, ALL my sisters and brothers.

I love getting to know folk. Hit me up. Comment. Share your thoughts. Let’s talk a while. I will put on the coffee. You bring the snacks. Social distancing, of course. 🙂

Staring pensively out his bedroom window, Red looked out at the snow pondering about life. Musing out loud, he asked for what seemed to him the millionth time, “ God, when is it alright for me to cry?” The question had been bugging him for days now. Years even if he were to be honest with himself. Sighing heavily, Red reflected over his life.

Red was an old man. A good man, but old none the less. He was an exceptional fellow who always seemed to have a smile on his face and a bounce to his step. Today, though, Red was not smiling. If the truth be told, Red seldom smiled on the inside. Stirring restlessly, Red ambled painfully to the living room. His arthritis was giving him fits here lately. The silence was deafening. The cry in his heart was even louder. “God, when is it alright for me to cry?” was a constant companion to the heaviness in his chest. Back and forth he paced, and back and forth he fought to silence the terrible cry in his heart.

Finally, conceding defeat, he decided to sit down and write down his thoughts. His dearly departed Mary never failed to take out her diary each day. It seemed to be a refuge for her. He had never taken much stock in writing, but the simple act seemed to bring Mary much closer to his heart. He missed her. Oh, how he missed her. The day they buried his precious Mary was the day they buried a part of his soul. He wanted to cry on that day too, but he had always been taught that “big boys don’t cry”.

Sighing out loud, he wondered where to begin. He’d lived a long time and experienced many things. He almost discarded the idea to write down his thoughts but the pen and paper seemed to draw him. They cried out for him to end the questions racing around in his mind. Hesitantly he began:

Dear God,

When is it alright for me to cry? When is it alright for me to shed the tears that I have carried around with me for the past 81 years? All my life I’ve been told that big boys don’t cry. I’ve lived by that rule all these years and it hasn’t helped one wit. Someone forgot to tell me what to do with the tears. I’ve tried to ignore them but they don’t seem to go away. I’ve heard that time heals all wounds but that’s not true either. I find that I want to ball my eyes out but no one will let me.

Yesterday, I went to church just to sit in Your house. I just needed to be around human company, I guess. You know how it is: going to an all night restaurant just drinking coffee and pretending like you’re just fine sitting there all by yourself when the whole time your insides are dying for someone, anyone, to stop by and say hello. No one ever does but you go there night after night hoping someone might take notice and acknowledge that you are a part of the world.

Anyhow, I was sitting in Your house with that same feeling hoping that someone, anyone, would come by and say hello. No one did, though. There was this one lady who looked like she was going to say hello but she seemed embarrassed by my presence more than anything. I couldn’t understand that because I thought You said we were supposed to love each other? I wanted to sit there and cry out loud but that seemed to be a big no-no. Everyone acted like everything was all hunky-dory. It seemed to be a requirement for everyone to pretend that life was one big bed of roses. God, what are we supposed to do when we have thorns in our rosebed? Are we supposed to act like they are not there? What’s so good about the “Good News” if a guy can’t even be himself around You?

On the way in, I caught this one lady brushing tears from her eyes before she entered the sanctuary. I asked if she was okay and she acted like I had caught her at some heinous crime or something. She threw some kind of “God Bless You” phrase and took off. While we are on the subject, God, why are Your people so afraid to cry? Jesus did. Why can’t they? I left as broken-hearted as I came because everyone seemed to be in the same boat as me but I was the only one who seemed to notice. I wanted to scream at everyone to get real. I almost did, but I didn’t have the heart to ruin their “wonderful time in the Lord”.

Another question God: Why do people spend so much time jumping up and down “praising” You when they are dying inside? Don’t they think that You would understand? DO You understand? Are You the one who started this not crying business? I’d really like to know. I feel awfully stupid writing to You. I don’t even know if You are real or not. How do I know that You are not some fantasy somebody dreamed up so that we could have something to believe in? That’s what I’ve been told anyway. Are you up there God? If you are I need to know. Mary always told me that she felt close to You somehow when she wrote. She said it appeared as if You were right there reading over her shoulder. I’m an old man now and don’t have too many years, so I’d appreciate it if You would let me know sometime before I leave this here old world. I’d like the chance to get to know You if I could. Better still, I’d like the chance to get to know ME. It takes a lot of work bottling up all these emotions.

                                          Just wondering if You’re Listening,
                                                                     RED

Red signed his name with a flourish and got ready for his usual trip to his late night eating place, Charlie’s. Red was super lonely tonight. He wondered for the millionth time if someone, anyone, would take the time to talk to him. He always tried not to get his hopes up because it was always devastating to put on his coat and walk back home knowing that he was alone in the universe. He wondered if there was anyone else who felt half as lonely as he did.

Red almost decided to skip tonight because it was New Year’s Eve. Red hated New Year’s Eve because it was the loneliest night of the year for him. He always went to bed early so he didn’t have to face bringing in the New Year all by himself. Dejectedly, He went through his normal routine of getting out his ratty, brown coat and red scarf that Mary had knit for him. Red’s steps were slow and painful. Tonight the loneliness and the tears were almost more than he could stand. He wondered if he would ever be cared about. He wondered where this “All-loving God” was that the preacher spoke about on Sundays. He just plain wondered.

Seating himself quietly, Red wondered if someone, anyone, would amble by and speak to him tonight. The waitress plunked down a menu without so much as a backwards glance and hurried back to her conversation with a fellow worker. With tears tugging at his heart, Red almost cried out for her to speak to him. Dejectedly, he went about his normal routine of scanning the menu to pick out something “different” tonight. Meanwhile, someone, somewhere was watching. Someone was watching and…

Back home, in Heaven, God sobbed quietly as He watched Red suffering in silence. God knew exactly what Red was going through for He suffered through those same feelings. God wept as He thought of Red’s journal entry about feeling lonely in church. God identified with that feeling also. He tried many a time to enter His sanctuary to sit with one of the congregation members only to be rudely jolted aside. God longed for friendship and fellowship as deeply as Red. More so if the truth were told. At least Red had the option of being seen and recognized without all the guilt, shame, rejection, and baggage that people always brought with them when they reached out to God. How He longed for someone, anyone, to just reach out to Him in companionship and love. How He craved to be seen just for Himself and not a prize-toting Santa Claus. God marveled at how people could get so angry at the mere thought of being “used” feeling no apparent qualms when it came to using Him.

So, God completely understood Red’s plight and determined within Himself to do something about it. Quietly removing Himself from His throne in Heaven, God entered the restaurant and took His place beside Red. Taking note of His surroundings, God deliberated over whom to call over. The restaurant was full of gaily dressed and apparently happy people. But God knew better. He knew that the majority were is lonely and felt as isolated as Red. He marveled how people could be in such pain and yet were so adept at hiding it. Or so they thought. Pain was easily recognizable to one sensitive to its cry. Pain was deafening to one acclimated to its song. Yes, pain and isolation was a song sung by millions around the world. Trouble was that most ran from this song, most covered this song with noise and activity.

Seeing a smartly dressed young man sitting alone in a corner of the restaurant, God gently tugged on his spirit. The young man jerked his head around as if someone had called his name. He surveyed the room, noticing an old man sitting at a table by himself. He felt a sudden urge to walk over and salute the stranger. Shaking his head at the odd notion, he went about his business of reading the sport’s section.

God sighed within Himself and tried again. This time, a pastor and his wife entered the restaurant ordering a light meal. Again, God tugged on the man’s spirit, and again the man swung his head around as if called. The pastor noticed Red sitting alone, but felt too tired to be “sociable”. He had a long session of sermon preparation and had little time for small talk. God knew that the young pastor would take no notice of Red. Why, he had hardly given his wife so much as a “by your leave” or even inquired about her day.

Patron after patron entered the restaurant, and patron after patron dismissed the tugging on their heartstrings to say hello to Red. The more that people entered and exited without speaking, the more humiliated and lonely Red felt. Tears slid down God’s face as the young waitress approached the table. Red perked up immediately, believing the young woman would spend a few moments with him as he noticed her gaily chatting with the young man who had been reading the sports section. God hung His head in shame for He had read her heart as she approached and talking was the furthest thing from her mind. Her aim was to collect her tip and send Red on his way so that she could end her shift and join the party she had been invited to.

Rudely informing Red that the restaurant would be closing soon, she slapped his ticket on the table and departed. Defeated, Red donned his coat and hurried from the restaurant. The walk home seemed endless. Red WANTED it to be endless for in a moment he would be entering his cold, lifeless apartment once again.

Turning the lock on the outside world, Red again felt the tears welling up in his heart. This time he didn’t hesitate to pick up his newly started journal. Painfully, he wrote to God about his experience in the restaurant. He wrote:

Dear God,

When is it alright for me to cry? I hurt inside. God, I hurt all over. I don’t know what to do with these tears. I’m angry with myself God. I don’t know why I keep putting myself in a position to be hurt. I feel stupid saying this but back there at that restaurant I could have sworn that there were some people who were going to speak to me tonight. They didn’t though. I saw the pastor from the church I went to the other day and was sure that he would say hello but I guess that he was too busy talking to you. I’m lonely, God, and don’t know what to do about it. You’d think that I would be old enough now to be able to deal with being lonely. I’ve found that the longer I live, the worse my loneliness gets. Is it supposed to be this way God? What’s the use of hearing eloquent sermons about the love of God and “loving your neighbor” when no one will even say hello?

Why, some of the same people that shook my hand and gave me a hearty “God bless you” were the same people who sat in that restaurant and couldn’t even say hello. I’m confused God. I’m angry God. I try not to want companionship and love because it hurts so bad when I don’t get it. I try to place worth and value into my own heart but that doesn’t work either. That’s like trying to get a warm feeling from hugging yourself. What a crock. I hurt God, I hurt. God, when is it alright for me to cry? What would be the point anyway? I have no one to hear my tears. I have no one to dry my eyes. I have no one.

                                           Hurting and wondering where You are,
                                                            RED

Red ended his entry and prepared for bed. Turning out his light, Red questioned his sanity about writing to God. He ruminated that it was a waste of time for he couldn’t even get a waitress that was “paid” to be sociable to talk to him. He was asleep almost instantly and blessedly missed all the midnight hoopla.

Back home in Heaven, God was wrestling with a quandary. He had read Red’s journal entry and was determining the best way to answer Red’s questioning heart. Deciding that the best approach was a direct approach, God determined to be Red’s pen pal and tucked an answering response in Red’s journal.

Red awoke the next morning to an intense light shining in his eyes. He was puzzled as he was sure that he had drawn the blinds. Looking towards the window, he indeed discovered closed window blinds. Looking to his right, he noticed his journal glowing on the night stand. Frightened, Red hesitantly approached to see the strange sight. Fearing the worst, Red opened his journal and was speechless by what he found.

Beneath his last journal entry were words in Brush Script blazing with fire. Strangely, the fire neither went out nor consumed the pages. Excitedly Red read the words and found that they set off a fire in his spirit:

Dear Red,

I have waited a long time to be able to “talk” with you this way. In fact, I am the One who placed the longing within you. You see, Red, I too have that same longing for relationship and love. I was there with you in that restaurant tonight. I cried on the inside for you. I can’t wait to get to know you and have you get to know me. I just wanted to be the first in your life to just say “hello”. I called many others to do so but hey, it’s their loss not yours. Your value is not in how many people you get to acknowledge your presence. Your value does not come whether they speak or don’t speak, whether they love or don’t love you. I love you. But, alas, I am getting ahead of Myself. I can’t convince you of things you don’t yet see. You will. I’ll be speaking with you again soon.

                                                                       GOD

Red wept as he read his journal. Finally, someone had said hello. And not just any old somebody. God Himself had taken the time to acknowledge his presence. He hadn’t known how badly his heart had been needing to be spoken to. He still had torrents of tears he wanted to cry, but at least now he had a few tears of joy to shed.

Tearing into his clothing, Red tore over to his desk and prepare to write to God again. In the middle of his first sentence, Red had to drop his pencil at the awesome notion that GOD was talking to him. Suddenly, he didn’t know what to say. He didn’t want to come off as an idiot or sound pushy. Deciding to wait until he felt more “worthy”, Red went on his usual morning stroll. His journal kept calling out to him, but suddenly he felt to worthless to be talking to God. He thought of all the times that he had scoffed at the very idea that there even was a God. His mind recalled the many times that Mary had attempted to get him to go to church. His mind played scenes back to him of the many times he had felt a tugging at his soul.

Disheartened by what he saw, Red decided that God really wouldn’t want to get to know a Cad like himself. Why, wasn’t he one of those “sinners” that preachers talked about? Red was crushed because he really did want to get to know God but now guilt and shame were getting in his way. Red’s heart cried within him to get him to again write to God but this time he was too afraid. He was afraid that there would be words of condemnation and wrath waiting for him. He was terrified that he would see all his mistakes and the many times he had laughed at God waiting for him.

God grieved as He watched Red struggling with these all too familiar feelings. God wept in loneliness waiting for Red to respond to the tugging that God placed in his heart. Day after day, God called for Red, and day after day Red reacted in fear and shame. In a quandary, God wondered what He should do. He had given man free will and free reign over their emotions so Red was perfectly within his province to be tormenting himself so. But God’s love for Red was so strong that He decided to initiate the next “meeting” between them. When Red returned from his walk, he found a letter waiting for him next to his journal. Red ignored the letter certain that all manner of doom awaited him. Finally, he could take the suspense no longer and found the following response waiting for him:

Dear Red,
I have been waiting anxiously to hear from you. I love you with an everlasting love and desire to be your closest companion. Well I know the struggle that you are feeling in your heart right now. This world would have you think that I am a harsh task master waiting for your every slip up. Nothing could be farther from the truth.

There is not one day that passes that I don’t long for the company of My dear children. I want you to know My heart. I want you to “touch My nail-scarred hands” and see that I AM real.

Love Me Red, and let Me love you. I wait to hear from you

                                                               God

Sobbing in relief, Red sat down and read his letter several times. He could scarcely believe that God would want to talk to someone like him.
Excitedly, Red thought of all things he had been wanting to ask God. Suddenly, his loneliness receded in a flood of warm feelings. He basked in the feeling as he had never felt such completeness, such wholeness. He was humbled that someone, anyone wanted to love him. He found that he wanted, no needed to be loved.

With shaking hands, Red slowly composed another journal entry:

Dear God,

Thanks for getting back to me so quickly. Thanks for not making me feel like a heel for not coming to You sooner. I find that I have a million questions for you and yet can’t write down one. I feel like a starving man being given the opportunity for a last meal. What to eat first? I don’t know. Here goes nothing. God, when is it alright to cry? What am I supposed to do with all this pain that I have hid inside my heart for so long? I find that I am afraid it. I’m scared that these feelings will overwhelm me. I’m afraid that You will show me things about myself that I don’t like. I’m just plain scared, God. Of you. Of me. Of letting anyone get to know me. What if there is nothing worth getting to know? God, show me my heart. Show me my heart as you see it. Not like I’ve learned to look at it. I’m afraid that I let other people color the way that I see myself and now I don’t even know what’s good and pure on my insides. God show me my heart.

                                                            Waiting anxiously
                                                                   RED

God read Red’s letter with great enjoyment. He delighted in Red as He did His other children. Red filled a need in God for companionship and love. He took pleasure in writing to Red and showing him His heart.

God and Red grew close over time. Both relished their time together. It was hard put to tell who received the greatest enjoyment and love from their fellowship. After a while, letter writing was not enough and God started to visit Red in person. Initially, Red was frightened and treated God with solemn politeness. But over the course of time, God wore Red down and they had a whale of a time together. They spent many, many hours together sharing each other’s hearts. God discovered that Red loved corny jokes and Red found out that God loved to tell them. They kept each other shrieking with laughter. Red couldn’t believe that God had such a kooky sense of humor. There were many things that Red found out about God. He discovered that God was intensely passionate about His children and that He cried often because of them. God shared many of His thoughts about His children but He kept the majority of His pain to Himself.

But Red noticed that God often would grow quiet and would seem saddened in His heart. On those days, God cut their visits short as He had no wish to burden His beloved Red. One day, when he could bear the Lord’s pain no longer, Red asked God what was the matter. He asked if he were the source of God’s pain. He asked if he had done something wrong, something to displease his newfound friend.

God assured Red that He had done nothing wrong. Red continued to prod the Lord until He admitted that He was grieving over His children’s indifferent and non-caring attitude. God wept bitterly as He recalled the many times He had reached out to His children only to be shut out of their lives completely. That is until they needed something, He admitted almost in embarrassment. Who wanted to admit that they were wanted only because they came bearing gifts?

God grieved deep in His spirit. He longed for someone, anyone to just say “hello”. He wanted to be to them what He had become to Red. He wanted to protect His children but He WAS more than a bodyguard. He was more than a grace-toting Ed McMahon, handing out winning lottery tickets to any who asked of Him. His Son’s life meant more than a “guarantee” that His children could “live like Hell” then use His precious Son’s blood as a “get out of jail(Hell) free card”!

God became livid thinking at how callously His Beloved Son, Jesus, was treated by those who professed to be “Christians”. The word almost made God sick to His stomach. His Son freely gave His life so that man could live life victoriously, not party til they dropped. His Son was treated as callously as Red had been treated in that restaurant. Oh, people were fine as their “needs” were being met but what about His?

What about the needs of others? What about the needs of their supposed Heavenly Father! What about the needs of one like Red who required one simple word to know that he mattered?

God stopped His musings, gazing sadly into Red’s heart noticing all the scars that had come from years of neglect, from years of not being seen, from years of not being acknowledged as being human. Tenderly, God gathered Red’s heart into His hands and wept quietly over it. To Red’s astonishment, he found that God’s tears were healing his broken heart. God began to cry the tears that Red had built up for years. God became Red’s conduit and let the tears flow freely.

He cried for all the lost years, he cried for ever instance that Red was ignored. He cried every time Red reached out in hope, only to have his hand slapped by cold hearts, by non-caring hearts, by busy hearts. God grieved for Red because Red symbolized His Son, Jesus. He cried deeply because Red represented His OWN heart. The world would be amazed to find that He grieves as deeply as they do. He loves. He wants. He has dreams for His children as any parent does. He needs. Yes, contrary to popular opinion, God does need. He needs His children’s love. He needs His children’s respect. He needs His children’s honor. He needs for someone, anyone to just call Him just to say “hello”.

Shedding the last tear, God solemnly placed Red’s heart back into it’s place. As God was removing His hand, Red reached out and took hold of it. Tenderly, Red placed a kiss in the palm of God’s hand. Reaching up, Red brushed the tears out of God’s eyes and gave Him a hug that wracked the body of the Great King. Together, they prepared for Red’s usual trip to Charlie’s.

They selected Red’s usual table. He began to go through his usual routine when he felt an intense tugging at his heart. He paused to find a melody coursing through his heart. This time, his melody was not one of personal isolation and emptiness. He strained to hear and was astonished to hear the hearts of many patrons calling for someone, anyone to stop by and say “hello”. He looked up to find God staring compassionately at Him. God said:

Red,

I healed your heart so that you would be able to hear other hearts crying out in pain, isolation, and loneliness. I healed you so that you could heal others if that was your choice. This world is in need of those who will love others. This world is in need of those who would put aside their needs to fill the needs of others. This world is in need of those who are not afraid to admit, as you did, that they HAVE needs. Then and only then can I come and be with them. Then and only then can I take their heart into My hands to heal it. Red, it is time for Me to return home. Know that I will always reside inside you, but now you must be the one to reach out. Fear not, My friend, I will come when you call.

With one last corny joke, God returned to Heaven confident that Red would make it. Never again would Red have to doubt that He was loved. God seated Himself on His throne in the Heavenlies. He had much work to do for He had another of His children in His sights.

Back in the restaurant, Red felt a tugging to speak to the young lady across the room. Looking closer, he discovered that it was the same woman that had been crying in church the first day that Red had attempted to reach God. Smiling, Red made his way across the room.

The young woman never noticed Red walking up to her. Annie was her name. Tonight she was especially lonely. She had been feeling tears welling inside her for months now. Years even if the truth were told. Sadly she wondered for the millionth time if someone, anyone would just stop by and just say hello. Her loneliness almost overwhelmed her. But somewhere, someone was watching.

Strolling confidently up to the table, Red stretched out his hands, looked deeply into her eyes and said…..”HELLO”!

THE END

Yes, there IS someone, somewhere watching over us. He waits for our call. He waits for us to let Him into our hearts. He waits for us to drop the baggage that we know as guilt, fear, shame, and hopelessness. He waits to reach out to us. He waits to tell us corny jokes. But mostly, He longs to reach inside our hearts and cry healing tears over them. He is waiting for you. Waiting for you to just stop by and say………………..”HELLO”!

This is a story about the human heart and its cry for love. Its cry to be heard. Its cry to be seen. Its cry to be received. It’s a typical heart and a typical cry. We’ve all heard this cry. Not from other hearts but from our own. Can you see past my walls? Can you see me? Listen closely and you will hear your heart speak. Pay close attention and you will hear the same cry from the one closest to you. You’ll hear the same cry from your neighbor. You’ll hear the same cry from your closest friend. You can even hear it from an enemy. Listen closely and you’ll hear…..

Can You See Me Past My Walls?

Can You see me past my walls? Can you see the goodness that God has placed inside? Will I always need these walls to survive? Will there ever come the day where I can relax and be me? Will there always be this struggle to be seen, heard, loved, and understood?

These walls have been with me so long that it is almost to difficult to imagine them being gone. They go with me everywhere that I go. They are my constant companions. Why, they are almost a friend.

Where did they come from, you might ask? They’ve been with me so long that I’d almost forgotten how they got there. They started out innocently enough. One brick here, one brick there. Before you know it there is a fortress mightier than Fort Knox. And just as impenetrable. What started out as protection is now my prison with no means of parole or escape.

How do you get away from walls of your own making? Where do you run? Who do you turn to when your walls were built to keep everyone out? You thought you were keeping pain out but all you’ve managed to do is to turn that pain in on yourself. The killer is that no one knows and no one sees. No one hears your silent screams of frustration and pain. “ I’m in Here!” you scream in agony but no one sees. This is the kicker for this is the way you designed your walls in the beginning.

Ah, the beginning. Back when you had the option to choose who could come and who could stay behind your walls. Back then, you knew who you were protecting yourself from and why. Yes, each brick has its own special meaning and significance. You go through them one by one recalling the hateful words, the rejection, the humiliation, and the utter devastation that came from never being seen for the person that God created you to be

So up came the walls. Brick by brick, stone by stone, layer upon precious layer. Until one day you could no longer see the sunlight. All that was left were shadows and cynicism. You stopped trusting everyone. To you, everyone was a potential enemy. No one could be trusted. Your haven became an armed camped. You made a pact with yourself that nothing, and no one was going to hurt you ever again. The beautiful thing about that pact was that it worked. No one got in to hurt you. The ugly thing about your pact was that it worked. No one could get in to love you.

You began to question your own judgments. There came a day where you refused to trust your own heart. You wouldn’t, couldn’t listen anymore. The pain was too great. You determined that the only means of survival was to decorate your prison and make the best of it. So you spend years decorating the outside of those prison walls. You do such an outstanding job that you are lauded for your bravery in erecting a facade that others can emulate and look up to.

You laugh a cynical laugh. They believe that you have “ got it all together”. They marvel at your apparently calm demeanor. They feel insecure because you seem to smile with ease and interact with all that come into your path. They stop short of seeing past your walls because that is how you planned it to be. Pain becomes your best friend. Pain is all you know. Pain is all you have. At least you can trust it to be there for you. You’ve gotten so good at this facade that even you have stopped noticing the blood dripping from your bleeding heart.

So you learn to live and love behind those prison walls. You eat, drink, work, and play all behind those walls. You get so used to holding yourself at arm’s length that you have forgotten what it was like to held so close that you can feel it way down on your insides. You smile on the outside but on the insides, you die a slow death every day.

Day turns into months. Months turn into years. After a while your walls begin to seem to be getting higher and higher. The higher they grow, the more dejected you feel. You become surprised by these developments because the opposite should have occurred. You should be happy. You are “safe” from all possibility of rejection by man. You are your own person. You work. You have acquaintances. Why, things should be going smoothly.

But what is this? You find that there is an ache deep inside you for love and companionship. There is a heaviness and void that just won’t disappear. You try all manner of things. You try relationships but you find that everyone else has walls too! You want to scream for them to tear theirs down so that you’ll have the freedom to get rid of yours. But no one seems to hear you. Everyone is too intent on building, and protecting their own walls. You look around to see them everywhere. Walls, walls everywhere. You can’t get away from them. You try to scale their walls but find that your own gets in your way.

You try to communicate through them but the isolation surrounding them are just too thick. You look closely at the walls that you’ve spent years building and grow sick inside. You realize all the years you’ve wasted. And for what? Your walls are covered with regrets: of lost relationships, of lost loves, of lost opportunities.

Opportunity. That word both sickens and frightens you. So many chances. All gone. Never to return again. Hopelessness. That one word sums up your plight. You’ve lived so long inside these walls you don’t know how to live in “free” society. You go around faking it thinking that opportunity will never knock for you again.

You grow up to be an adult to find that your walls have grown with you. You take them everywhere with you. On your job, in your home. Everywhere. Why most even marry with their walls. It’s sad to say that most marry that way but they do. They’ve given up hope on ever breaking free and both parties make a silent pact to ignore the other’s walls.

Walls. They are everywhere. You are tired of yours and tired of everyone else’s. You determine to be the first to break free and make an attempt to live a full and happy life. You venture forth from behind your walls only to be slapped in the face by the cool winds of indifference. You look around in amazement to see that no one else is willing to make the attempt to loosen even a brick in their fortress.

“It’s easier living this way”, they deride you. “Why try? Why waste the effort? You’re bound for disappointments”. Everywhere you go you are faced with man’s logic. You grow desperate and determined that you won’t live your life this way and you are bound and determined to find others who feel the same way that you do.

You try and you try, and hope turns into disappointment. Disappointment turns into discouragement. Discouragement turns into hopelessness. “Can you see me past my walls?” is your heart’s constant cry. “Can you see me past my walls”? Over time the question begins to first haunt you and then anger you. Haunt you because it is a question that you can never run from for it is ever before you. Anger you because the question carries bushels of pain and tears. You want to cry but don’t know who for. Them or you? Them because they are missing the opportunity to be loved by you. You because you are missing out on the opportunity to be seen, heard, loved and respected.

Can you see me past my walls? Can you hear my silent screams? Do you even care? DO YOU EVEN CARE? That question is the killer for It is the very reason you erected your walls in the first place. Does he care? Does she care? Am I worthwhile? If I died would anyone grieve for me? Is there anything inside me worth grieving for? You decide that the answer is probably no and so up goes the walls. But with every brick is the desperate hope that somebody would see you. Maybe somebody will come and take that brick from your hand. Maybe they will see the beauty and strength that lies inside you. You certainly can’t see it.

Maybe. That word is a painful one. Maybe. That one word keeps hope alive which is something that you desperately try to keep from happening. Hoping brings feelings. Painful feelings. Maybe. Maybe he will love me or maybe she will want me. Maybe, someday, somewhere, somehow, someone will see me. Maybe, one day they will see. See that I exist. See that I matter. See that I count. MAYBE SOMEONE WILL SEE ME. And if they see me, then that must mean that I exist.

Existence. The very word sets off anger in me. Why? Because I’ve fought for my right to “exist” my whole life. “I AM HERE”, I rage behind my walls. Don’t ignore me. Don’t hide from me. I exist. God made me. I am here for a purpose. Just because it’s not your purpose does not negate my existence. Just because it is not the purpose that you had planned for me does not erase my existence. Don’t erase me from this world because I am not quote-unquote “famous”. Don’t erase me from this world because I don’t possess millions of dollars. Don’t erase me from this world because I don’t possess Cover Girl beauty. Look and see. Look past my walls. Can you see me past my walls? Am I worth the time it would take for you to look inside and see what’s there?

Worth. Worth. What a word. Five letters that have caused more pain than all the wars combined. That one word symbolizes so many things. That one word has caused so many to hide forever behind their walls. We are afraid to ask how much we are “worth”. We are afraid to find out if our value is contingent upon what we do or don’t do, on what we have or don’t have. We are so afraid to find out our actual worth so we attempt to “bargain” with people and come bearing gifts. Gifts of talent. Gifts of monetary value. Gifts of prestige and position. Gifts of physical beauty. We are afraid to come empty handed for most of us feel that we will never be received unless we bring our worth with us.

What a pity. What a shame. Every day, millions of people die and are buried behind their walls never having lived. Never having loved. Never having had their love calculated. And the tragedy about that is that they missed the entire point of living. Living is the priceless thing. Life is priceless. All life. Rich or poor. Young or old. All are priceless. But grieve not for those who died behind their walls. The true tragedy is for us that remain living. For we don’t truly live. We survive. We go through the motions.

Going through the motions. Its what we all do isn’t it? We applaud survival. We root for the underdog. We champion the champion. And all behind our walls. Can you see me past my walls? Do you see me running in a race that I can never finish? You can stop me. All it takes is one look. One look. One word. Just call my name.

My name. Something so small. Something so enormous. We are all so starved for love and attention behind our walls that one call of our names can cause an avalanche around our heart. Call my name. Someone call out my name. But no one hears. Dejected, I bend again to retrieve another brick that I place upon my walls. I build until my hands bleed. I build until I can no longer feel anymore. Sure, the questions are still there but all I feel now is apathy. There is no hope for me. It is too late for me. Leave me behind my walls. There is nothing left to give. There is nothing left of me.

But wait, what is this? Someone is knocking upon the walls of my heart! “Go away”, I yell in torment. “Leave me here to die. I don’t need you now. Where were you when I cried out for you? Where were you when I cried myself to sleep that night? Where were you when I was told how worthless I was? Where were you when I needed someone to believe in? Where were you when I needed someone to believe in me!”

Leave me behind my walls, you scream. You don’t look to see who is out there. You don’t even care to look. It’s too painful. You drown out the knocking on your heart and throw yourself into “living”. You tell yourself that you only have one life and you intend to live it up. You grab a hold of whatever vice is hip these days and you live it up. Maybe you drink yourself to death. Maybe you eat yourself to death. Maybe you drown yourself in your work. Maybe you drown yourself in sex. Whatever. No matter. Anything goes as long as it quiets the gentle knocking going on outside your walls.

You think that the party knocking outside will go away but they don’t. You find that they have taken residence outside your walls and is content to sit quietly waiting for you to make the first move.

Day turns into day. Year turns into years and still the party is waiting on the outside of your walls patiently waiting to come in. In fact, the party is there so long that they have become a fixture in your life. You’ve gotten used to them being out there. You start to feel safe and couldn’t imagine what life would be like if you didn’t have that stranger sitting on the outside of your walls. Waiting. Silently waiting. One day, you awaken to find that the stranger had slipped a letter of introduction under your door. You look at it in suspicion, hesitant to pick it up and read it.

You don’t trust it or yourself so you leave it just sitting there with curiosity eating away at you. You grow angry with yourself because you don’t want to start that hope nonsense again. You’ve grown cold on the inside and that is the easiest way to keep it you tell yourself. But the funny thing about that letter is that it begins to thaw out that coldness that had grown around your heart. In desperation, you grab the letter and attempt to force it back underneath your door. But you find that you can’t turn it loose. You look for a candle to read by but find that you have no lights around anywhere. You’d gotten used to living your life in the dark.

But strangely, you find that this letter has a glow of its own. You open it to find words that will shock you to your very core. The words were these:

Dear One,

I’ve spent many years waiting to introduce myself to you. You’ll never know the many times that I’ve had to restrain Myself from breaking down your walls. I could have easily done so but that would have been to your detriment. You have needed them. To you, they have kept you alive. They have kept you going. And for now that is all that was necessary. But the time has come for Me to let you know that you have been heard from the beginning. I have seen ever tear, and I have heard every cry. I have made many attempts to get to know you over the years but so many have given me a bad name that I have found it difficult getting past your walls.

If you have not guessed by now let me introduce Myself to you. My name is Jesus. I was there when your parents gave birth to you. I have walked protectively nearby your whole life. I was there when you picked up your first brick and I was there when you laid your last. I’ve cried more tears for you then you could even begin to imagine. I cry for you now even as I write this. I cry that I have to try to convince you of your worth. I cry that you can’t see it. I cry that the world has not seen it.

Dear One, I long to be your friend. The world has many idiotic notions about me. Most have not the slightest grain of truth to them. The sad fact is that most people are so afraid to get to know Me that they rely on the misinformation of others. I laugh at the notion that I gave up My life to be judge and jury over people. Why would I want to? I am angered by those who water down My gospel and turn it into a browbeating guilt session.
Dear One, I came to rescue you from your walls. I died to give you the freedom to live and love fully without torment, without fear, without having to jump through hoops to be accepted. I found you to be so priceless that I gave up My life to buy yours. How much more valuable can you get? Dear One, listen not to a cynical world that says all hope is lost. Listen not to those who would tell you that to love fully and openly is foolishness. Stay away from those who would try to convince you that you need great sums of money, great stores of beauty, or prestige or position. You need none of these things.

Dear One, I wait outside your walls to give you but one thing: My love. That is all you need. It is your key to freedom. Dear Heart, I can’t wait to get to know you. You and I are going to be the best of friends. I don’t know why people are so shocked to learn that I love and need them as much as they need me. Why don’t they understand that I have a heart to? I feel pain. I feel loneliness. I feel rejection. But alas, that is another letter. For now I just wanted to introduce Myself to you and give you the opportunity to get to know Me. Take your time. I’ll be here waiting.

                                                                Always
                                                                Jesus

P.S. I’m waiting anxiously to hear from you!

Balling up the letter in frustration, you launch into a tirade about God. You rail that if He were real and if He did care, then where had He been all this time? Why did He allow all the suffering that you’d gone through? You decide that you can get along just fine on your own, thank you very much.

But the damage has already been done. You begin to thaw and resent it. Your heart has been too badly damaged for you to even contemplate love again. But there goes that nagging ache in your heart again. “Can you see me past my walls?” in frustration, you ignore the words and try to go on with surviving. You decide that it’s better to survive. You determine that true living is lived in fairy tales and million dollar movies. You shove your letter into the bottom of a seldom-used drawer and continue your masquerade.

But little do you know that your life is of such infinite value that your silent friend has taken up a life-long vigil outside the door to your heart. Day after day, your silent friend slips notes under your door, quietly waiting for you to respond to one. He sends friends, situations, trials, and triumphs to leave notes under the door but you don’t respond:

Dear One,
Just a note to say I love you. How have you been?
J

Dear One,
I created a rainbow just for you today to let you know that I was thinking about you. Did you see it? Take care.
J

Dear One,
I was talking to Dad about you. I’d kind of gotten a little dejected because you haven’t responded to Me but Dad told Me not to give up on you. He told Me to love all your hurt away. I told Him that I wasn’t going anywhere but it hurts all the same that you won’t talk to me. How come?
J

Dear One,
Today I created a spectacular sunset for you. I noticed that you rushed right by and didn’t see. Look outside tomorrow and I’ll make a beautiful sunrise for you.
J

Dear One,
I’m sorry about what happened this morning. You looked so lost that I had to hold you. I gave your friend the key to your fortress and had them give you a hug for me. I didn’t mean to make you cry that way. I’d forgotten how powerful a hug given in love can be. I wish you’d let Me hug you all the time. Boy, you sure built that wall twice as thick after that hug. No matter. I’ll still be here waiting.
J

To your astonishment, you find that each note has removed a brick from your walls. More amazing still, you find that you want those bricks removed. You attempt to help but you find that the weight too heavy to bear. You look at the millions of bricks and grow discouraged. “You’ll never be free”, you sigh to yourself. You’ll never be whole. You grieve deep within yourself and attempt to go on with life as usual but now that you have seen a glimpse of the sunshine, you find that you can never again be satisfied with the darkness.

At your darkest moment, you look down to see a note shoved under your walls. This one is special for it holds a golden key. The note is a simple one. It says:

Dear One,
Remember that you have the key. Use it and I will come for you. I will come and together we will tear down your walls. Trust Me.
J

P.S. I know its hard to trust when you’ve spent your whole life afraid to do just that. But your freedom lies in trusting someone other than yourself. We were not made to be alone. We were made for each other. To love with. To laugh with. To share with. To walk alongside one another. I’m waiting for you.

You find that this note begins an avalanche in your heart. Hope returns with a vengeance. But with hope also comes fear. It had been easy for you to make excuses and stay behind your walls. It’s lonely there but at least you feel “safe”. If you come out, you’ll have to deal with feelings and relationships. You’ll have to trust again. You’ll have to give your heart the opportunity to learn love again. But with that opportunity comes the chances of being hurt again.

But what are your options? You hurt anyway. Your pain is ever with you. It is ever present. It follows you on the job. It goes with you with every promotion. It follows you when you drink. It follows you when you enter that restaurant. It goes with you in the nightclub. Your diversions don’t work. They only make your pain endurable. At least you lie and tell yourself that.

With halting steps, you reach over and grab hold of the key. Instantaneously, He is there beside you. Now He is on the inside of your walls. To your bewilderment, He seems awfully familiar to you. You wonder how that can be as you’ve spent your whole life alone and yet He seems so familiar. You ask Him about it and this is what He tells you:

Dear One,
Haven’t you guessed by now? What you felt as pain was My gentle knocking on your heart. What you felt as emptiness was My tender prodding of your spirit. No one sees a doctor until the pain is greater than his determination to bear with it. Humans are a silly lot. They’d rather bury their pain or try to ignore it. They’d rather mask their pain with things that lead to greater sources of pain. They rationalize that at least they are in control of whatever pain they are currently inflicting on themselves. Worse yet, they contend that they are only “hurting themselves” as if this should make things okay with me. What they would not dream of doing to an enemy, they have no problems justifying doing to themselves.

Dear One, I’ve come to you so that you might help Me rescue others from their prisons. I saw your attempts to reach out to others and was glad that you did so. I knew that your quest would end in defeat, as you cannot love others or help them break out of their walls apart from me. This is so because one must first admit that they are there. Humans have another funny quirk called denial. It’s too painful to admit that you have walls. If you admit them, then you must deal with the reasons that you put them there in the first place. Most lack the courage or commitment to do that. They are easily discouraged. They feel that they somehow “deserve” their prisons. I am telling this to you, dear one, so that you will know what to do the next time you see someone’s walls.
Don’t do as most do and ignore them. It is painfully easy to do so. People keep their fortresses so elaborately decorated or so awesomely fortified that

it is easy to get intimidated and run away. Don’t leave them behind their walls, dear one. Don’t leave them behind their walls. Can you see them past their walls? Who do you think placed that question into men’s hearts? I did. I had to or they would never set in motion the steps necessary to be free of them. I placed that question in you. Come, dear one, let us remove you from your walls so that you can be free to love and be loved as you were made to.

From that time on we went about the business of destroying my walls. This was a painful but joyous time. For Jesus was with me the whole time. We laughed together. We cried together. We went over each brick and discussed what had erected it in the first place. I found that the tears were healing not only my heart but was fusing me to my best friend, Jesus. For it was at the toughest moments that He held me the tightest.

On the days when my hands were too sore and too bloody to handle another brick, He was there to wash them and He, Himself rubbed soothing oil into the palms. Once as He did this, I noticed faint scars in the palms of His hands. I cried as I realize that He actually died as He said He had. I believed like many others that the story was just a nice story to tell at Christmastime. The story( up ‘til now) had little significance or impact upon my life. I took both His hands in mine and kissed them. “ Thank you”, I said. He understood what I meant.

It took quite a while to remove most of my bricks. I say most because being human I fight to keep the walls down but it’s never easy. But the good news is that when I do, I hear knocking on the walls of my heart. Better still I hear my best friend say: “I see you past your walls”.

Today, I am on a mission. A mission to free as many as I can. I know what it’s like to be locked behind walls. Now, I know what its like to know freedom. Now I know what it’s like to see the sunshine. My best friend has taught me how to free others. I’ll tell you what He told me the day that my last brick came tumbling down:

Dear One,

Today is a day of great rejoicing. For Me, because we can now be one. For you, because you can now live and grow as you were meant to. But, dear one, I have a special charge for you. I need you to be a friend to others for Me. I need you to go into places where I am not yet allowed. I need you to see past walls into the hurting hearts of men and women. Pay no attention to their outside walls. They only camouflage what lies deep inside. Listen closely and you’ll hear. Listen closely and you will hear. Look. Look closely at that one over there. See her smiling? Look into her eyes. They don’t smile. Look into her eyes and see her walls. Can you hear?

Love My people. As much as you are allowed to, Love my people. Pay no attention when they react from hurt or fear. Love them anyway. Man hides behind walls not out of choice but because they believe that they have no choice. They eat, drink, sleep, worship, live, and die behind those walls. Help Me, dear one. Help Me reach them past their walls. Pay no attention to how they dress, or how much money they have. Walls know no distinction. Walls affects every man, woman, and child alive. Can you see them past their walls? Do you choose to? It is a choice, dear one, it is a choice.

We choose every day to see past walls or to walk away. People are dying, dear one, people are dying. I need you to help them. Go to them and look past their walls. I go with you.

                                           All My Love,
                                                Jesus

So it is with this mission in mind that I listen. I listen and I hear, “Can you see me past my walls? Can you see the goodness that God has placed inside? Will I always need these walls to survive? Will there ever come the day where I can relax and be me? Will there always be this eternal struggle to be seen, heard, loved, and understood?”

To all those questions, I say: Yes, I can see you past your walls. You’re beautiful. You are priceless. Your life was created for a purpose. You deserve to love and be loved. You can come from behind your walls. You CAN walk out into the sunshine. But you need a friend to walk beside you. You need a friend that will love you when you can not love yourself. You need a friend to believe you when you can’t believe in yourself. He is waiting for you. He is waiting to love you past your walls. You need not come bearing gifts. The only thing needed is you. You are priceless, dear one, you are priceless. There is a beauty trapped inside you that can only be freed as you take the chance to trust again. Listen. Listen closely and you will hear a gentle calling of your name. Listen closely, and you will hear the Master say: “I can see you past your walls!”

I just wanted to put a human story, upon the much used phrase of ‘systemic racism’ currently being bandied about. America has been anxious to ‘reopen’. For POC, for myself, reopening is nothing to celebrate. America has been frustrated by their ‘inconvenience’ of being without. For me, the economic pandemic will continue.

My name is Cassandra. I am a 51 year old, African American woman, who has worked hard, all my life. I write these words, from a rented apartment.  I have never been able to obtain a loan, in order to purchase a home. Persons of color are often denied home loans as we have been advised we don’t have the ‘collateral’ or ‘don’t earn enough’ or ‘would not be able to pay for monthly mortgage payments. Often times, our rent payments are much higher than a mortgage payment would be. POC have spent much our lives paying off the mortgages,for a privileged America, who can then obtain loans, to purchase rental properties they then rent to us. POC are often denied the privilege of living in ‘nicer neighborhoods’ and are often pointed to higher priced, often poorly maintained rental properties.

POC have not been afforded the opportunity to build wealth via home ownership. Thusly, at this current time, White wealth is currently at $171,000, whereas Black America wealth sits currently at $17,000. As we speak, many of you are reading these words, from the privileged place of a home. My mother dreamed of owning her own home. Sadly, she passed away, three Christmas ago, never having known the privilege.

I will, most likely, never know the joy of home ownership due to the added issue of lack of wealth due to inequity in earnings, through lack of opportunities for growthand pay inequity. POC are generally the last hired and first fired. POC must even be careful, in naming their children, given the fact that names, viewed as being ‘black’ are often shunted to the end of the resume pile, if not placed into the circular file, in it’s entirety. As a POC, it is near impossible to obtain a well paying job. We are raised that we must ‘work ten times harder’ just to hope for an opportunity that rarely comes. And, if we are given an opportunity for a job, we often end up training those, far less qualified, who end up being promoted. Those promoted, often lean on our talents/skills, yet, they are the ones who obtain the pay/accolades etc of POC who work tirelessly, in hopes that one day, someone may notice, our hard work, and offer us higher positions, stock options , and better pay.

I have always dreamed of going to college. I was unable to earn enough to attend, due to helping care for my mom, who lived with chronic diabetes, high blood pressure, and arthritis. These, I am sure, were, in part, due to being forced to live in neighborhoods where sewage plants and other toxic waste etc are placed in neighborhoods of POC. There were also very few, if any, grocery stores where fresh fruits and vegetables are readily available. Most POC learned to live on processed foods. These are cheaper, easier to maintain, however, only exacerbates health concerns.

A beautiful white friend of mine, emailed me, recently. She hated how POC have been treated. She wanted to find a way to give me her home. She wanted to atone for all that is going on, right now, and all that has come before. I share with you, what I shared with her: POC are not asking for special treatment. We just want equal treatment. I don’t want her home. I want to be able to own my own. We just want the flag, that everyone so dearly loves, to cover us, as well. I have dreamed, for more than 30 years,  of being able to have my own website where I can spend the rest of my days encouraging others and spreading joy. I long for the day, of financial freedom, from somewhere, so that I may keep scratching for that American dream. Without a college degree, or access to learning how to build a webpage, the network to obtain a grant/loan I couldn’t afford to pay back, I despair that I will ever fulfill my dream. It took years, to scrape $1,100, for savings. Yet, one financial issue, wiped out my savings in a matter of month or two.

It took me, almost 50 years, to FINALLY purchase a new car. Even though, I had zero debt, and lived within my means, I was unable to obtain a loan. It took persistence to finally find a car dealership who offered me a 2016 Ford Focus, with zero percent interest. I have not missed a payment, in four years.

I have read all the wonderful statements by various corporations, institutions, sports leagues etc. I have been heartened to see so many who say they want to help and are donating to BLM and other organizations. Yet, where does that leave me? I work hard, care for others, encourage others every day. I still write these words, from an apartment and see no way of crawling out of my financial hole, built insidiously by system racism, to obtain a home, refill my bank account, obtain a PPP, that can be forgiven(such as large corporations were able to do).

I ask that you share these words, with others, with those, whom say they wish to help, in order for them to truly understand what ‘system racism’ does to POC. Should you wish to contact me, please don’t hesitate to do so. I welcome all feedback/suggestions.

Watching George Floyd, take his last breath, has made it impossible for me to stay silent.I want the opportunity to live the American Dream. I love America. I just wished America loved me. I can’t breathe.

With much respect,
Cassandra Jeanette
Jeanettesctt@yahoo.com