I have experienced moments of great joy and tremendous pain while living in this humble abode. It's the first place that I called my own after 14 years. This is the place where I found satisfaction in simple things. In this place I celebrated with my friends and family when the first African-American was inaugurated as president. In this place I was able to breathe again.

Things have change.

Two years ago some folks broke a window and wiped me out. Though I felt a measure of violation and loss at a time in which my heart was already raw, I experienced deliverance from my dependence upon accoutrements to make me feel good. For that I was thankful. I was able to walk in freedom, no longer worried about possessions.

This time is different.

I have much less now than I did before in terms of material goods, but I have gained much more. Thing that were an impossibility before now appear within reach. Where I once lived my life as an either or proposition, I now know that choice can actually be an abundant thing.

When I came home last night I saw that my door was open. I walked in and turned on the light. Nothing had been disturbed but my door. I knew what was taken before I reached what used to be its hiding place and I was correct. My weapon of choice was gone.

That's what I thought last night, but this is what I know today. I'm still here and so is my weapon. The trajectory from which I launched my weaponry is gone, but the weaponry remains. As long as I am able I will continue to write. That open door, I chose to walk through without fear and will continue to do so in all that I do.

You can walk through it too.

Justice, freedom, peace and love ~ Michelle

Regardless of what the economists and the President say about the recession being over, many of us are still feeling the pinch.  The National unemployment rate for August 2010 was 9.6%, for Georgia we’re above the national rate at 10% and for African-Americans 16.3% we outpace every other group outside of teens.  Joblessness, financial woes and a heated political climate can certainly lead to a state of hopelessness, even a state of illness.  Persons of faith may seek out spiritual relief for their pain, whatever the situation.  The church/synagogue/temple/mosque becomes a place of refuge, a center of hope and where financially viable a place for assistance.  The question is what happens when the church falls short?

The current saga of Atlanta’s Bishop Eddie Long, causes me to pause, brings sadness and to an extent a measure of fear.  My experience for the most part has been a positive one, a place of nurturing, a place for edifying, a source of knowledge and a place of peace.  For the young men (now four) who have come forward with lawsuits, per their allegations, the church was all but that.  Persons of faith and experience have an understanding that the church is not a man, but is actually a body of believers who come together for one common experience of worship.  For a young man, a boy, perhaps without a father, it is a place of refuge a place to connect with a father figure to nurture and teach and give guidance that only a man can give.  Yet per the allegations, this is not what they received.  Their story is not a new story; incidents of child molestation, sexual abuse and pedophilia have been well publicized whenever they have occurred.  What sets this story apart (at least for me) is where it occurred, the race of the persons involved and the stature that this particular Pastor holds in the community.

This story gives brings a measure of fear on a number of levels.  Specifically with this case, I fear that four is not the final number. I fear that the current parishioners of New Birth may become disillusioned in their faith based on the alleged actions of a man. I fear for the young men and their families, that they will be attacked by overzealous supporters of the Bishop. I fear that all parties involved may never recover, should the allegations prove true.  My biggest fear however goes beyond this case.  That fear is that the community of faith will erode as people become more cynical and more fearful of making a spiritual commitment and joining a body of worshippers of similar belief.  If the place of worship and the presumed men/women of God – the presumed strongholds, the shelters of last resort are no different or are even diabolically worse than what one sees in their daily life, then where shall a troubled/tired/weary/restless soul go?  What shall they do?

The responsibility for allaying the fears and erasing the doubts falls to the body, the real church.  As the leadership fails, it is the body that must pick of the pieces and continue the work, in love, re-establish trust through action and emphasize that worship is reserved for the creator, not for man.  In the era of the mega-church/mega-minister it is all too easy for a new person of faith, a young person and even a person who’s “been in the church their entire life” to be persuaded by the charisma of the leader, the size of the place of worship or the economic status of its parishioners.  The body most be cognizant of this at all times and ensure that the center of all worship and all service is God.

I don’t know how many of you attend New Birth, or any church/mosque/synagogue/temple for that matter, but those of you who do I challenge you as a person of faith to look out for your brother and sister and especially the children and yourself.  Keep the one who created you as the center, practice your faith daily and trust the spirit within you first, before you lay trust in man. 

Accountability: the quality or state of being accountable; especially an obligation or willingness to accept responsibility or to account for one's actions <public officials lacking accountability>

(courtesy of Merriam-Webster.com)

I’ve been searching for, wishing for and trying to hold myself and those around me accountable for their actions.  What I see/ feel is that when it comes to accountability, your best bet is to only hold yourself accountable for your own actions, because what anyone else does, whether it is done directly to you, or it is done around you the chances of holding someone accountable is slim to none.  My good church folk may say, hey it’s not your job, “vengeance is mine sayeth the Lord”, being in the category of church folk (among many others) I too say have said that.  We wait patiently on the Lord to do his thing.  We see wrong and unjust acts every day, and it seems that folks just get away with it.  Wrong and unjust acts are committed against you and against me and the people who do said acts seem to revel in their injustice. 

When injustice occurs do you hold the unjust one accountable? Do you “check them” or do you let it go and let someone or something or some being handle it?  I’ve done both.  I have gotten up in the face of the perpetrator, called them on it and tried to make them accountable for it and I have also walked away.  Maybe it is our nature, especially in this time that we want results and we want them now.  We see the powerful untalented, reap the benefits of the powerless talented.  We watch the rich get richer on the backs of those who can barely put food on the table.  We see the weak beaten down to further the empire of the strong.  All of it is done boldly, seemingly without remorse and seemingly unstoppable.

The best way to stop injustice is to hold the unjust accountable. How do you do that when you are not in a position of power?  Let’s say you have the numbers, let’s say you have the message, let’s say you even have the trump card to put them down… and nothing happens at all.  Then what?

Labor Day evening, while doing the write up on the Macon race, my phone started ringing. One call, I ignore, another I ignore, there is no phone answering or talking period during the writing process. Once I finished the post, I checked my phone, three calls and a 911 text.  Our dear friend, sister, mother Marilyn had gone to the other side.  On her way to the store that evening, she likely wasn’t thinking that this was her last trip. She likely was thinking of getting back home to her family, enjoying the last few ticks of the holiday, entertaining, laughing and enjoying life.  That’s what I remember about her.

I remember when the family moved across the street from my Godparents.  We were excited, another black family in the neighborhood, they had a son and a daughter and a swimming pool in the back.  Little did I know then how many good times we would spend with the family.  All that good food she used to prepare and even if there wasn’t a smell of food, there was a smell of candles or incense. Marilyn’s house smelled good and looked good and so did she.  Oh she was fly, always had been a real show stopper when she entered a room she had flair without being showy. She had a great smile and an even better laugh and her coconut cake was the BOMB.

My sense of style came from my mom and dad, but guess who taught me about color in a wardrobe and cosmetics? Marilyn.  I bet she doesn’t remember, but she showed me some cards one time, I think it was part of her business she was running then, about color theory.  She is the one who first showed me what color clothing and make-up looks best on my skin tone. I’ve stuck too it ever since.

After we all grew up and went away and came back with husbands and babies and such, she was right there.  When I got married, my husband and I traveled back home for the wedding reception.  She had never met him before but just the same, she opened up her home and pool to us for a gathering in celebration of the nuptials. She was that kind of woman, always giving, always going out of her way, always making sure that you were comfortable, even if you’d just met her.

Now she is no longer with us.

But she lives on with her children and grandchildren and the zillions of people like me who loved her. She had a beautiful spirit that was visible for all to see.  She blessed us all with her presence, she taught us all what grace under adversity looks like, and she loved, and loved well.

None of us know when the time for transition will come to us or the ones that we love. Because we don’t know that time, why take a chance? Why not love someone TODAY?  When you get to the final resting place will you be able to say, I loved and I loved well?

In the interest of stretching out, doing something different but in a place that’s somewhat familiar, right after the Peachtree Road Race I signed up for the Macon Labor Day Road Race 10k.  I happen to like Macon, it’s easy to get around, laid back and I knew that the experience would be a good one and it didn’t let me down. I couldn’t have thought of a better way to spend the “unofficial end” of summer than to get up, get out and run with other like minded folks.

The weather was fantastic! In fact I left the hotel with a fleece on, it was that cool out.  Parking was a snap and the race start was just a few blocks away at Run Fit Sports a great shop with lots of running and walking shoes, fitness gear and a sale in progress. It was also warm inside the store.  The scene at the start was typical, mile long port-a-john line, folks stretching, folks running to the start line (have never understood why anyone would use that energy) and the bleary eyed who might have been having second thoughts.  The 10 k start time was 8:15. Everyone was kind of talking and standing and the gun went off, no loudspeaker, no nothing and everybody took OFF...

and blew right by me!

Which is fine, I’m a tortoise not a hare and we weren’t a mile in, maybe a half mile before we hit a huge hill that runs alongside the designated parking for the race.  After that first hill the course was really fantastic.  Flat for the most part, and fairly shaded, we ran down Forsyth past residential and business areas.  There were no cheering throngs along the route but there were a few folks scattered about to cheer us on and it was much appreciated.  The water stations were well stocked and for some DUMB reason I took some water, which I NEVER do but my mouth was dry.  I would have been better off swishin’ and spittin’ than drinking because it gave me a fit for the next mile. Then I was alright.

Right after the 4^th mile was another hill, not as long or steep as the first and the buildings provided great shade so it wasn’t bad at all.  At that point the 5k and other 10k finishers were walking back each shouting the familiar refrain “you’re almost there”, I laughed every time I heard it because at the 2^nd hill there was still two miles to go.  Yet it went by quickly, we took a couple of turns through downtown Macon, near the Sports and Music Halls of Fame and Tubman Museum and I crossed the finished line in Central City Park.

Would I do it again?

Absofreakinglutely!  The course is great, its scenic, the runners and walkers are friendly and the race size of 2000 is just right.  Park finishes are always good for me, as parks are my very favorite thing.  Though I’d like to see more to drink at the finish, the race in its entirety gets a big “thumbs up”. Macon Tracks Running Club, the race sponsors, Macon Police and EMA run a well oiled machine of a race and they send you back to the parking areas via the comfort of air conditioned motor coaches (buses) instead of being packed in light sardines rubbing up on everybody’s sweaty bodies. That is a classy touch and the race shirts are spectacular women’s or men’s fit shirts in technical fabric, the best shirt I’ve ever received from a race. I highly recommend the Macon Labor Day Road race to anyone who loves hitting the road, by foot of course.

See additional photos of my race experience here.