The Body of Christ, Broken Para Ti

During the Eucharist, I was mesmerized by a tiny Hispanic girl who wandered around the front of the sanctuary. The little girl was probably around three years old, was dark-skinned, had long straight black hair, blunt bangs, and the cutest chubby cheeks you’ve ever seen. She wandered around the front of the church and eventually, she ended up standing in front of the line of people receiving communion. She stared in genuine interest at the pastor and the man that was serving. They didn’t notice her, but she was entranced by what they were doing. After the last person was served, the pastor turned around and placed the chalice and paten back on the altar rail. The little girl spun around and placed her hands over her face and fell face-first into the front pew and started crying. The pastor realized she had not received communion, so she grabbed the chalice and a piece of bread, and then knelt down in front of the girl. The girl looked up through her fingers and realized the pastor was going to allow her to partake. She grabbed the piece of bread, dipped it, and ran to her parents, grinning from ear to ear.

Tears streamed down my face during this entire encounter. What a picture of the gift of Holy Communion. A picture of the grace that I have taken for granted for so long…a reminder that anyone and everyone is invited to this table—God’s table. 

Home Part One

I live in Andalusia, but this is not my home. You see, home is not simply a set of coordinates on an x and y-axis that indicate a specific geographical location on a map.


Home is where you find your people.

Home is where you put down roots in other people’s souls rather than this place called Earth that we build our houses upon.

Home is where you go into a local hole-in-the-wall restaurant and order the Thumper Breakfast (if you finish it, it’s free)—where your waitress has a shaved head and tattoos and piercings as far as the eye can see—and when you walk through the door, she says, “It’s been a while! Where have you been? I was hoping you’d join our rugby team!” and you feel slightly ashamed that you are so recognizable as a patron of a place that serves equally as much grease as they do food (there’s a warning on the front of the menu about potential cardiac problems and who cares because they’re the best damn pancakes you’ve ever put in your mouth—also probably why you can’t play rugby) and even more guilty that it’s been so long since you’ve been there and you’ve missed your friends that are the other waitresses, waiters, and “regulars.” (Just don’t go during normal breakfast hours for breakfast or you’ll have to fight a hipster with a beard and a nose ring and Warby Parker frames for your booth.) If the place had not been torn down in a fit of gentrification, you could also check the ceramic cupcake in the corner for bits of life’s wisdom written on torn napkins and paper placemats. “What if the world really is square?” “What if the Dixie Chicks could hold a sing-in at the Whitehouse—and invite P!NK?” “All that we are is a result of what we have thought.”

Home is allowing the children from upstairs to play with my dog, Groucho, whom they call “Grouchen” because they are from Egypt and their English is broken. Home is meeting the parents of Dulaji and Carulos and using Google translate on my phone to translate from Arabic to English and English to Arabic. We had many conversations this way while the children played with “Grouchen,” and it allowed him to expend some of the pent-up energy from being kenneled all day. I learned that Romeo goes to work at 4 a.m. where he walks in the dark down the steep, winding driveway of my apartment complex and hops into the back of a truck full of men that will travel to Kentucky to do construction work for pennies. He arrives home each evening around 8 p.m., in time to tuck in his children for the night. Juliet is unable to work because of a back injury, but I learned that they needed a way to send money back to Egypt to their family who had lent them the money it took for them to come to the United States. So, logically, I take Juliet and the children to the Nations Ministry that is run out of the basement of my church to speak with someone who could translate what exactly it was that they needed to make the transfer. They helped them figure out a way to get the money to their family. Home is seeing Romeo walking from the Kroger that is 2 miles away on Christmas Day with several bags of groceries hanging from his arms. I stopped and asked if he’d like a ride back to the apartment. He said yes. I stopped at CVS and got what I had ventured out into the frigid temperatures for…and then I saw it—a bin full of toys. I ended up buying my prescriptions and a talking Spider-Man mask and a full kennel set for a pink stuffed dog that barked when you patted its head. It was more than I had intended to spend, and frankly, more than I could afford, but I knew that the children would love those gifts as if I had made them with my own hands. I helped Romeo with the groceries and climbed the stairs to the third floor where Romeo invited me inside. The gifts were unwrapped, of course, so I knelt on my knees and handed them to each child. Dulaji let out a squeal of joy and Carulos is probably still wearing that mask because it’s now melded to his face. Romeo poured me a full-to-the-top glass of red wine. I accepted it graciously. Juliet indicated that she wanted me to wait and try some of their food. Both are traditions for their family’s Christmas. I waited. I sipped the wine. It was terrible, but I was so afraid of offending them that I just kept taking small sips. When Juliet brought over the bowl with cabbage wrapped around meat and covered in broth, I almost gagged. Instead, I smiled and accepted the bowl graciously. My mouth still waters and tingles when I think about how spicy that food was. But, I was so afraid of offending them, I somehow managed to chew and swallow enough times to finish it. I could not finish the wine. But, I got about halfway through it. It wasn’t a total waste. It numbed the fire that had become my tongue. I thanked them profusely for the food and drink and wished them a Merry Christmas from me and “Grouchen.”

Home is arriving to work and seeing an injured bird under the concrete awning of the building in front of the doors. I went inside, and the lady who pushed around a janitor’s cart and cleaned our building was standing there, watching the bird from inside the glass wall with her hands on her hips. She just stood there and watched and shook her head. I asked her if she had a bucket or anything to try and capture the bird with to get him back into a tree where he would have a better chance to heal and survive. She said she didn’t, but followed me up to the third floor where I worked, and we plotted. We had just celebrated Cinco de Mayo, and there were sombreros everywhere. I took one of the hats and headed back downstairs. The bird was still there, distressed as ever. I cornered it and then took the hat and scooped it up, closing the sides so that he couldn’t escape. We were a squawking mess. I took him to the back side of the building, and the janitor was still following me. When I reached in and put the scared creature onto a limb as high as I could reach, the lady asked me, “Where are you from?” I said, “Alabama.” She said, “Oh,” as if that told her everything she needed to know about a woman rescuing an injured bird with a sombrero. Then, she just turned and walked away. When I walked back inside, a new supervisor was setting up her station. She was tall and had short hair, and she was absolutely stunning. She took one look at me in my tie-dye dress and laughed because she had heard of the bird rescue and saw the sombrero…and she knew. She knew, just like I knew at that very moment that we would be friends forever. As it turned out, my desk was directly behind her. Even though I was not on her team, I got to interact with her a lot. To this day, she is one of my closest friends and confidants, she’s a champion for my success, and her beautiful girls will always have a place carved out in “Saucy’s” heart. I love you forever, Sharin, Alexia, and my little spit-fire Amirah. You are home.

I didn’t want to.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom.

Mom,


First I want to start off with an “I’m sorry.”


I'm sorry I’ve caused you so much grief. And the pain I’ve caused you and the pain I feel daily is inexplicable. Having a mental illness has shaken our relationship, but ultimately I believe it has made it stronger. We have faced many challenges, arguments and mean things have been said (mostly by me). Along with those hardships, we’ve had many heart to hearts, long talks and lots of bear hugs standing in the kitchen. We’ve come a long way and each day we get stronger and closer. You've never given up on me.


You’re my best friend, mom. You’ve taught me basically everything I know. How to love, forgive, be at peace with my mental illness, and most importantly, how to be a daughter. Having you as a mom is a dream. You’re everything I could ask for and more. You’re my favorite person and my number one shero.


I know that not as many people are as lucky as I am. They're not as blessed to have such a loving, forgiving and gentle mom. That’s why I never take a day with you for granted. There will come a time when what I have is the gift of memories and of the life we shared together. You give me a purpose for existing.


You always reassure me all will be well, give me advice, bring me back when I wander and you steer me in the right direction. We have a bond that only a mother and daughter can share. You understand me better than I do myself sometimes and that speaks on so many levels.


So, to all the tears you’ve wiped from my face, all the kisses to calm my weary heart, all the hugs that have stopped my anxieties — thank you, mom. I love you so big. Infinity times infinity.


Love,


Brittany

Honestly,

I’m not OK.

I wish I could tell you this. I’ve wanted to so many times when you ask how I am.

I’m not OK.

Is what I want to say.

Instead, I nod my head. Usually just one confident nod. Sometimes I’ll nod a few times. For security.

Tilt it slightly to the left.

Make sure my smile is big but not too big.

I am so good!

And then I immediately segue into talking about you. Asking how you are. What you have been up to. Steering as far away from the subject of me as I can get us. See how good I am at it? I amaze myself sometimes with how good of an actress I can be.

I feel myself dying a little bit more on the inside. Angry that I let another opportunity come and go. Another opportunity to open my mind up—just a little—and let some of the demons out.

But I don’t I can’t I want to. I want to so badly. But I can’t.

Because here’s the thing: I was fine the day before. I was fine the week before. I’ve been fine a whole month before!

Before it came back. Because it always comes back. It tricks me. It tricks you more.

You see how good I’ve been. Maybe I was even great. Amazing. Fantastic. And I want you to know I really was. But you, like so many others, were tricked into thinking maybe it wouldn’t come back. That sense that I had been doing so well. I’d been so happy. That I could do this.

You’re not the only one, though. It got me, too. Except, deep down, I always knew the truth. I knew that it would eventually be back. It always comes back. Sometimes it never really leaves at all.

And so, I can’t tell you. I like feeling as though someone is proud of me. I like seeing and hearing something other than concern when someone asks how I’m doing. Just as long as I don’t say it out loud.

I’m sick.

Then I can pretend for a little while longer that I am OK.