The Boldness of Yearning / My Perspective

One of my greatest passions is Storytelling. One of my greatest gifts is my imagination. Together, they have provided my life with intrigue, adventure, romance, and the ability to emotionally soar.
When my life went through a major change, and God placed a select few people in my path who gave me priceless encouragement, I finally understood just how blessed that I am.

There is but one slight drawback. When I am developing my characters, and my stories, my heart and spirit begin to yearn for the type of love that I write about.
I tend to focus on topics that are often difficult for people to talk about. These stories are seldom about love.
 However, telling love stories is simply a part of who I am.

Is yearning a sign of loneliness?

It does not have to be. I happen to believe there is a naturalness connected to the yearning of the heart. The Bible teaches us that it is not good to be alone. This tells us that God understands whatever our feelings are during this time. He also lovingly reminds us that He will always be with us..

I love the summer months. It is during this time that I become aware of my yearning spirit. I love the sunny days and the beautiful clouds that fill the sky. I am not even seriously bothered by the heat. Back in the day, I actually planned yard work for mid-day.
My lupus limits my time in direct sunlight, but if I am careful, I can still manage to fully enjoy the clouds.

My yearning makes its presence known in rather simple ways. It could a pretty day that just begs for a short road trip. Perhaps visiting a small town with quaint little antique shops or bookstores. Of course, it would be necessary for the person with me to enjoy either antiques or books. Both??
Or, a nice picnic in a small park....
Interesting conversation...
I have accepted the fact that I am really not exactly a social butterfly. I make no apology for being me. I must admit, that over the last few years, I have felt somewhat guilty for perhaps being rather boring, compared to some women.  These feelings usually result in the 'birth' of a male character that is simply perfect for me. Or perhaps I should say, I am perfect for him..
I often yearn for someone to have the patience to just listen to my story ideas.

I believe that both men and women experience yearnings from time to time. I also believe that society has programmed us to be embarrassed or ashamed of these feelings. It is okay to sing along with a love song, or identify with a poem that hits a nerve, but it is not easy to just come out and say that your heart yearns to connect with that special person.

There is boldness in accepting our feelings, only then can we deal with whatever those feelings happen to be.
There is boldness in owning your personal truth.

Oh well, my stories are a welcome outlet for me and my yearnings.
I am truly blessed, because my stories never make me sad; they have become anchors for my hope.

The Voice of Maya Angelou/ My Perspective

When I learned of the passing of Dr. Maya Angelou this morning, I was deeply saddened. I believe it is safe to say that a large portion of the world is mourning her death.

When my granddaughter mentioned this afternoon, that she had read 'I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings', I told her that I had also read the book at a young age. I was mistaken, I was actually 18 years old when I read the book. I realized later, that reading that book took me back to my childhood.

I remember how surprised I was to find out that this story would take place in Stamps, Arkansas. Momma and her family lived in and around Stamps after leaving South Carolina, and before moving to Texas. While growing up, we would visit the few remaining relatives at least once a year. They had a huge peach orchard, and we always had plenty of canned peaches in the pantry. They also made a very limited supply of peach wine that was delicious.
I was fascinated by the mere possibility that I had traveled the same roads as this gifted and talented woman.

Of course, by the end of the first few paragraphs, I knew that this story would touch my very core. I personally understood so many of her feelings.
I so completely related to this child making the decision to simply cease to speak.
If I could have managed to do so, I would have done exactly the same.
I fell in love with the voice of Maya Angelou.

I love the art of expression in any form. I LOVE the art of storytelling. I love words that come from the heart of the artist. Sometimes, words are just beautifully strung together; this is an amazing gift. There are also words that you just KNOW flowed straight from somewhere deep inside the artist.
I have never met either a man or woman who ever read her work, or heard her speak, and were not touched in some positive way.

You just know..

Maya Angelou's poetry introduced me to a level of poetry I had never experienced. Her spoken words flowed with the same cadence as a beautiful song filled with melodies that touch your very soul.
The fact that she always remained humble, made it possible for her wisdom and insight to make a genuine impact on her readers/listeners.

Maya Angelou's work has done more to build the confidence and self-esteem of Black women than any one person I am aware of.
 Her words have provided both permission, and a guide that helps all women to accept, love and embrace who they are.

God gave her a voice and the words to lift spirits, teach the life lessons she had learned, and to share her wisdom and love with others,

She will be greatly missed.
Her words will live forever.
Thank you Father, for sharing her with us.

Religion and Respect........By Sammye Kaye/ My Perspective

Once again, I am surprised by the fact that so many people of color were blindsided by the racist comments made by the owner of the Clippers.
Racism will not be the topic of this post, but it's blood cousin, discrimination, will be explored.

I am blessed to have six female friends who have impacted my life in ways they will probably never understand. Four of these women are Catholic.
 We are all women of strong faith. We have shared our experiences from the different denominations we have belonged to over the years..

I grew up in a small town with an impressive representation of various religions. I was fortunate enough to grow up in a family who were actually members of different denominations. Except for an occasional tacky comment by a family member who had mastered the art of being 'tacky', there was an unspoken rule of respect regarding the personal belief system of each person.

Over the last twenty years, I have noticed the ease in which some people criticize the religion of other people. The strong boundaries that once protected a very personal choice, has become almost nonexistent.

Who has the right to tell another person how they should practice their beliefs?

I have seen women valiantly attempting to defend a ritual or practice that is dear to their heart.
I have seen the faith of women questioned by people who feel they are mandated to make them see their truth; by any means necessary. Except gentleness and caring??
I have seen women left in tears following an attack of harsh, unyielding words in an attempt to tear down the fiber of their religion.

It appears that those who have chosen to practice Catholicism, are quite often the victims of the most negativity from other denominations.
The disrespectful attacks can range from sharing an offensive news article, to aggressively asking questions that are designed to start a negative dialogue.
This is unfortunate. I reminded one of my friends that in most cases, the person is simply ignorant. Perhaps if they took the time to ask intelligent questions about things they don't understand, they would gain enough knowledge to be respectful, or at the very least, be quiet.

Some harp on the issue of sexual immorality in the priesthood.
Is there not an issue of sexual immorality among the clergy??
Yes, when children are involved, their punishment should fit the crime; for anyone who is guilty.
Is it power?
Yes, the Pope has an incredible amount of power, from the Vatican.
Yes, a popular,and well connected Pastor, also has an enormous amount of power, and he is standing in front of his congregation every Sunday.
Is it money?
It is my personal opinion that most organized religions are too focused on money.
Yes, yes, I know; they are businesses..

Now see, none of the denominations are perfect.
None of us are perfect.
Glass house?
Throwing the first stone?
Think about it...


It basically comes down to Christians attacking other Christians.
Why?
Are they unbelievers??
All parties involved believe that Jesus is the Son of God.
The same people believe that He was crucified on the cross, He was buried, and He arose on the third day.
They also agree that Jesus ascended into heaven, to sit at the right hand of His Father, Our Heavenly Father, God.

So, what is the real problem??
Ultimately, what we believe, and our personal salvation is our choice and our responsibility.
God will hold us accountable for our lives..

If we spent more time trying to become better people, I mean just trying, we would not have either the time or inclination to cause grief for other people.

Give other people the respect you expect to receive....

World's Most Beautiful Women,,,Perspective of Sammye Kaye

I believe that since God made each of us in His image, we are all beautiful.

This particular view, along with a few others, has resulted in my being referred to as being too nice,(???)  naive, delusional, 'polyannaish', and fake.
Since I have always been secure regarding 'who' I am, these opinions(?) mean nothing.

We live in a world that thrives on the superiority of someone, or some thing. I suppose it should be no surprise that physical appearance will no doubt remain first and foremost, the most important factor for many regarding worth.
A few select women anxiously await the announcement of who will be named the most beautiful woman in the world. This decision will forever impact their lives.

How much will the choice affect the lives of others?
It is a fact that both Beyonce' and Lupita are beautiful women.
The fact that young Black women can pick up a popular magazine and see a woman who resembles themselves being celebrated as Most Beautiful is nice.
Will this make them feel better about themselves?

I have chosen not to address the deep rooted issues that accompany our beautiful skin tones. There is no point at this time; we know what they are. Later.

However, I must point out the importance of affirming the beauty of our women within our families and communities; at all times. Our little girls need to learn how to accept the unique beauty of themselves. Next, they need to learn how to accept the differences and beauty of other women. These lessons must be taught by other women.
Women who love them, as well as themselves.

Will the handsome, or perhaps not so handsome young Black man who will smile and celebrate the beauty of Lupita, choose to do the same when he meets a young woman who is a dead ringer for Lupita ( minus the designer outfit and professional makeup)??

Will the obnoxious aunt who is so thrilled for Lupita, go back and apologize to her niece for telling her sister she needs to " buy that child a wig, because her hair will never grow!" "And, she looks like a boy!"

The magazine will be sold off the shelves. The celebrity news will move on to something else. But how many people who cross the paths of our little girls and young women will see and acknowledge their beauty?? Not the size and shape of their bodies, or the color of the skin, but their entire beauty.
.
It is not easy being a Black woman in this society.
We don't all look like Beyonce' or Lupita.
Thankfully, we are all uniquely different...
But, we are all uniquely beautiful.

How can I say that??

Because God simply does not make mistakes.

'Pine Cones and The Hunchback' A Story by Sammye Kaye

My luck finally ran out. Mama called me at 6:00 a.m. last Friday, and told me point blank, that she expected me to be home for Homecoming the following Saturday morning; early," before the birds build a nest in your behind." She made this last comment with a smile in her voice, but she knew how much it bothered me. Okay, so I am not a morning person. Since I am now almost 30 years old, I no longer feel the need to feel bad, but my Mama still has the power to make me feel bad about anything.
So, it is 5:45 on this Saturday morning, and I am headed down 59 to the beautiful East Texas town where I was born. It has cobblestone streets downtown, thick red clay dirt, tall stately pine trees, and amazing rolling hills.
My favorite music is playing not at all softly, and I have to admit that the sunrise is breathtaking. Since I don't see too many sunrises, I decide to stop and actually take a few pictures. Photography is my favorite hobby, so I am never without a couple of cameras.

I am not looking forward to this trip home. I love going home to see about Mama, who is actually my grandmother. I visit her at least once a month. Two of her widowed sisters live with her, and they are all forces to be reckoned with.  When Daddy died several years ago, they decided to move in together to better take care of each other. Of course, they have their fair share of drama, but overall, they have managed to do no bodily harm to each other, or anyone else. Yet.

With the help of intricate planning, I have managed to avoid attending Homecoming since adulthood.
Our church was actually started over 70 years ago by one of Mama's older brothers. His name was Johnson Gallon, and the church was built on a hill surrounded by a thick grove of pecan trees.
 Hence, the birth of Johnson Grove Baptist Church.
The church is small, but probably still beautiful. There was an ancient bell in the tiny tower, that was so old, they were afraid to actually ring the bell very often. One day the opening was left open, and I looked up into the dark tower. The dark shadow of the huge bell scared me to death.
I used the word probably because I have not been to the church since I left almost 10 years ago. The small group of families who love and support the church would make sure it was taken care of. Of course, the core members are old, in poor health, or deceased, but their children would still do what needed to be done. Even I still contribute financially.

The closer I got to town, the tighter the knot I had been trying to ignore became. I was finally forced to take that trip down memory lane that I wanted so desperately to avoid.

My Daddy was a deacon, and Mama was a deaconess. We went to church four times a week. Monday night was business meeting. Wednesday night was Bible study, and Friday night was choir rehearsal, We went to Sunday school, morning service, and later, evening service.

When I was nine years old, after a business meeting, we stopped at Pastor and  Mrs. Frank's house. He was the assistant pastor, and she was over the Sunday school department. She was a tall thin woman who was always gentle and very nice. He, on the other hand was quiet and creepy. You could just feel him looking at everyone, while trying not to let them see that he was looking with such intensity. He was short, and had a strangely curved, bent back. When I was younger, I thought he looked like a turtle because he did not appear to have a real neck.
I loved to read, and I always took a book to church with me when the grown people had business to take care of. One of my favorites was Classics Illustrated. I had a copy of ' Robinson Crusoe' that I was reading for the second time.
I had been sitting in the living room and Mama was in the kitchen with Mrs. Maelee. Apparently Daddy had left, because he was not there. I got up to go to the bathroom, and was surprised to see Pastor Igor; yes, that is his real name, sitting in a straight back chair across from the bathroom. I remember stopping for a minute, holding my book tightly as I tried to figure out what to do.
.
You see, the entire house so was tiny, it felt like a dollhouse. In order for me to go to the bathroom, I would have to touch him. The decision was made for me, because I really needed to use the bathroom, so I slowly walked toward the door.
When I was within his reach, he grabbed my right arm, took the book from my hand and placed it in his lap. He quickly placed his right hand on my chest where my breasts would one day be.
He pinched seemingly as hard as he could, while rubbing back and forth. The pain was sharp and deep.
I was speechless. I looked at his tiny serpent looking eyes and wanted to die. Finally, I was able to  pull away and run back to the living room. I forgot about needing to use the bathroom.

I sat on the edge of the couch trembling. I wanted to cry, but my eyes would only burn. I wanted to run into the kitchen and tell my Mama, but I could not move. I vividly remember thinking that it was my fault and I had done something wrong. I kept those feelings for many years.

I jumped when he slithered silently into the room and tossed the book onto the coffee table. The book landed on the edge of a bowl of pine cones sitting on a starched white runner with red embroidery around the edges.
I don't know how much time passed before I heard my Daddy knock on the front door. Mama came out of the kitchen, and I remember Mrs. Maelee gave me a hug as we were leaving. She asked if I was cold, because I was still trembling. 
I left the book on the table with two pine cones covering the picture of Robinson Crusoe longing for someone to save him.

I jumped into the backseat of the car and tightly closed my eyes. When we pulled into our driveway, I pretended to be asleep, hoping my Daddy would pick me up and carry me into the house like he used to.
But, they woke me up so I could walk into the house.
After all, I was a big girl.
Wasn't I???

Church was never the same. I had trusted everyone I had grown up seeing every Sunday, and most of the rest of the week. Now, I did not know who I could trust.
Yes, I still have trust issues; especially men of the cloth.
I would sit in Sunday school and look at Pastor Igor and wish all kinds a bad things would happen to him, but then I would immediately feel guilty and ask God to forgive me.
The more I looked at him, the more fitting I felt his name was. His mother's choice was perfect.
He no longer looked like a turtle, he looked like the picture on the cover of my copy of 'The Hunchback of Notre Dame'.

By the time I had packed Mama and my aunts into my car, my nerves were much better. Yes, I had to do some serious praying.  It helped that they were pleased with the fancy new underwear I brought them. They were grumbling because the food for Homecoming was now catered. Back in the day, the women prepared food for their families, and everyone shared their special dishes. Unfortunately, one year, several of the older members ended up with food poisoning, and the decision was made to have the food brought it. I think they secretly enjoyed the fact they did not have to cook. I certainly would have.  However, those were very good times. The presence of unity and importance of family was priceless. I remember Mama had a red Scottish plaid cooler she used to pack some of the food. It was round and big enough for me to sit on
I allowed myself to embrace and enjoy the good memories. I strongly suspect our mindsets no longer have room for experiences such as these, which is our great loss. 

Quite a few 'young folk' had come for the occasion, so it was nice to see people I had not seen in years. I grew up in the midst of elderly people, so I am comfortable just listening to their conversation. More young women should take the time to soak up the wisdom of women who have traveled many of the same roads they are; and they survived. I must interject that they can also be extremely entertaining.
I was expected to explain why I was still not married. I managed to respectfully evade the question; several times to be exact. After taking a long pointed look at my mid-length natural hair style, one sister informed me that I might find a husband if I straightened my hair. Since Mama had made the same comment, I was neither surprised nor offended. Being an adult is a beautiful experience, and I seriously enjoy living my life, my way.

I was sitting in the relatively new cafeteria, thinking that Johnson Gallon would have no doubt been proud of his efforts to provide a place to worship the Lord.

I looked out of the window just as a blue nursing home van pulled up to the door. I watched as they carefully pushed a wheelchair down the ramp.
As I looked at the man bent over in the chair, I did not have to see his face to know who it was. Although he was small and frail, his back seemed to be even more pronounced, and round. He was slowly folding into himself.
He slowly raised his head, and I looked into his eyes.

No, his eyes did not look kind, gentle, or in any way benevolent. None of the softening that often comes with age. His beady little eyes were still serpent like, and surprisingly sharp. He was very much aware of his surroundings, which means that he is also just as aware of his condition. I noticed that he had very little use of his hands. I envisioned him sitting uncomfortably in a full diaper as he remembered nasty, disgusting deeds of his past.
Apparently he had partial speech, since he was attempting to converse with the older members who went to greet him.
Once a pastor, always a pastor.
By the time they entered the cafeteria, I had learned that he had two daughters who came down after his wife died and took him directly to the recently opened nursing home. They had not been back to see about him; not even once. The church members however, made sure that he was comfortable. These same church members also had no problem condemning the daughters.
We Christians seem to quickly forget that one should never attempt to judge what you do not know.

You probably think that I made a point to avoid Pastor Igor, but I was compelled to go into the Sanctuary. There were changes, but I looked around and thought about the many Easter speeches that we had to say at both morning and evening service. Mama loved clothes, so sometimes, I would have two outfits instead of one. I remembered the day I joined church. I was ten years old and it was on Mothers Day. Mama was so happy; actually, so was I.

I  walked slowly up to the altar and kneeled down. I was gently overcome by an encompassing sense of peace.
I left the pain, fear, shame, and the remnants of misplaced guilt of an innocent child, right there on the altar of this tiny church that would always be home.

Mama finally cornered me when I returned to the cafeteria and took me to speak to Pastor Igor.
He looked up and our eyes locked. Mine were still damp from the tears shed in the Sanctuary as I rededicated myself to Christ. His were still as cold as ice.


After I said hello, I knew without any doubt that he remembered me, and what he had done.
 Deep down, I knew that God made sure that he clearly remembered.
 I refused to look away. I stared at him until he tried to look away. I then realized that his head would not turn to either side. He could only move his head up or down. Finally, he slowly dropped his head.
Surprising myself, I reached over and gently touched his back.
He jumped and started to tremble.
Was his trembling as painful as mine had been?
I wonder...

At that moment, I realized that I had forgiven him.
God had blessed me with the freedom and power of being able to forgive this...man
.
 I will admit,that when I thought about the almost guaranteed probability of his molesting other children, I could not help but think how fitting it would be if Pastor Igor lived a very long life.

Thankfully, that was not my decision to make.
Life, as well as vengeance, belongs to our Heavenly Father.