Grandparents Are In A Class All On Their Own

Grandparents are in a class all on their own. 

They are almost always wiser than our parents. They tend to be sweet first, and heavy handed later. For some they are more like parents to their grandkids. For others, maybe they never got to experience a true relationship with them. 

Some live in our homes, or right down the road. Others, out of state or even further than that. 

Adoptive grandparents can become someones saving grace. A place they eat some good food and feel peace. Oftentimes listening to wisdom they didn't know they needed to rejoin their biological family. 

Grandparents have lived lives we can't even imagine ourselves. From their childhood, to their victories and failures... maybe a black and white image or story told around the table is what connects us to them. 

Some are much younger grandparents and they are alive to see great grandkids etc. Others may have a trauma or difficult past that keeps them apart. 

Grandparents are the ones who will slip you a dollar behind your parents back or rat you out in a heartbeat if they don't like what they see! Easily our role models, prayer warriors, and "come and sit down next to me" kinda relationships.

I was blessed with a mix of it all. Stories I am still learning and listening to. Memories of lives I never knew, and some I have the honor to know now. 

Grandparents invoke faith. They encourage purpose. They whisper wisdom into our minds and hearts from a young age in hopes we will one day believe it in ourselves. 

Today I looked down at my phone in disbelief. My Grandma, our Grandma Martin, had left this world. 

We swore she would outlive us. That she would keep sharing stories of friends and family forever. That nothing this world threw her way could ever slow her down. 

She was blunt and kind and loved God more than anything. She was the tiniest ball of sweet and sassy.

As broken and in shock as I am, I have peace... because I know she had it her entire life. Until the very end, she didn't fear pain or death. Only the absence of God. 

Her little giggle. Her smile. Her willingness to love a stranger and a relative the same. I can only hope to carry those traits in a similar way. 

I will deal with the heaviness, the grief that comes with loss and many things out of our control. I'm sure I will feel and have much more to say in the future... 

But for now I want to recognize the joy she was to me and so many she came in contact with over the years. How she can finally ask God the questions she's wanted to for so long. To be reunited with my Grandpa, her siblings and parents in Heaven. 

Rest In Peace

matching pajamas and morning routines

I’ve written about it before when I was much younger. About how there is a sacredness around tucking in and waking kids up.

When I was younger and we would travel to camp where kids were sleeping in bunk beds for the first time. No sirens. No gun shots. No loud music. Just crickets and the leader below them snoring… I remember several girls all climbing into the same small bunk because it was more familiar this way. I remember boys lining up at the doors, teeth brushed and ready for a hug. I remember tapping their shoulders early in the morning and seeing their sleepy eyes and hearing the groggy voices. The late night cuddles and the early morning attitudes are some of my all time favorites with these kids. Well. Maybe not the attitudes! 

This year has been nothing short of unfamiliar and distant to what we usually know as a family. But I have been given the gift… yes, gift, of waking some of our kiddos up each day. Tapping them on the shoulder quietly… although pulling blankets off and opening curtains has happened a few times too! Getting them ready for school. Looking for socks and shoes. Helping mom get all the supplies ready. Watching sleepy eyes open and running all around to find the right jacket or chromebook.

The text said, “la puerta está abierta puedes entra” and although my Spanish is god awful, I’ve heard this enough to know what it means. And that statement alone has its own significance. It was dark and quiet but the oldest was already starting to move around in fear I would target him first. Up next were the two middles. Hiding under covers saying something like, “it can’t be Monday… it’s TOO EARLY!” So I tapped shoulders and poked sides but no luck. Next. The baby. It’s amazing how heavy kids become when they don’t want to wake up! His giggle gave him away and I knew if we could get the oldest and the youngest moving, the middle two wouldn’t be far behind. Next thing I know I'm looking at a bunch of boys in matching pajamas! My heart couldn't handle to cuteness I almost forgot we needed to get out the door! They each had a few moments to get a hug and wipe the sleep out their eyes while waiting for the bathroom. I guess you could consider this our morning routine now.

I am a sucker for the small moments that add up into something big. I love adventure, don’t get me wrong. But there is something sacred or spiritual about the first moments our eyes open, or the softness of our breathing as we drift off to sleep. 

And even on days where it takes extra time to sit and talk about life… or look around for shoes... or brush teeth... or read yet another story… it’s time I won’t ever take for granted.

Mosaics Are Made From Broken Glass

I learned a long time ago that mosaics were made out of broken glass. 

Different colors, shapes, textures, but when you piece them together, paying attention to their details, they create some of the most beautiful works of art. 

Discarded. Forgotten. Broken.

Repurposed. Intentional. Beautiful.

Recently I have felt broken, useless at times. 

Forgetting who my creator was. 

Capable of.

What I was made for. 

More often than not, I have seen broken pieces made into something awe inspiring in the light.

So why now? Because I stepped back into the shadows? Because clouds covered my source of light? And in that fleeting moment I lost sight of my purpose? 

Who really knows...

What I can say is, in the midst of my fight, my untangling, my discovery... 

I remembered the time she told me about the ashes. The time we used someones trash to create a masterpiece. 

Spiraling is never a good look on anyone and I tend to do my worst acting in these moments, assuming no one else can tell, or maybe no one cares...

None of this is a fully formed thought...

I am better than I was.

I'll never be whole like some say.

I am a masterpiece, yes.

A work of art created by the pieces of broken glass created to form me.

The silence isn't deafaning anymore.

The chaos in my mind doesn't feel so violent. 

There are signs of balance.

Emotions are finding their way to the surface, 

some are more managed than others. 

Not all days will end with a sunset full of our colors.

Not all mornings will feel stoic. 

My path has been formed, 

no matter how many times I leave it or wish it were different, easier maybe.

Only certain moments... etched in this broken glass, 

will collect the light "just so" to where my purpose, my masterpiece, is fully on display

and I can recognize it as such.

And it will feel like waking up for the first time.

 

                                                                                    "He talked about you all the time." 

Class of 2020

Class of 2020.

Thank you.

Thank you for the

best memories.
late night talks in the van.
the grey hair.
the life lessons none of us really
wanted to learn at the time.
long summer days.
cold winter nights.
arguing with me for 20 minutes
about how you didn't want to read
for 20 minutes.
swapping shoes so you can play football or basketball,
without creasing your own.
belly laughing till you cry.
blasting music in the car and singing as loud as we can.
all the hugs and high fives.
shared plates.
holding me accountable.
crying because some days you just have too.
trying new things.
letting me go on my own journey,
accepting me back with open arms.
telling it like it is.
for being the best "siblings" to the rest of us.
allowing me into your homes,
classrooms, families, and heart.
showing me who Jesus really is.
for being leaders.
for all your love, tough and tender.
but especially, growing up with me.

Your class may not be walking across a stage, or ending the school year "traditionally" but I'm not sure if there really ever was anything "traditional" about your class. Looking back over the last several years, there is no Ms. Chloe without y'all. Whether we've been together 9 years or 2, we grew up together in every sense of the way, and for that, I am grateful. There are so many things I could say about how this is the end of a season, and start of a new one... I could tell you how proud I am of you all. How much I miss a lot of you. But really... when I think about it, we've had moments similar to this for a long time. Overcoming obstacles. Fighting against disappointment, worry, or comparison. We have celebrated on the court, we have danced in the park, we have hugged it out on the street. This feels familiar and new all at the same time. I dedicated my life to make sure young people like you all, all over this world, were loved, celebrated, seen, heard, and given the opportunity to succeed at anything you set your mind to. Some of you will begin to have your own families, look for a job, go to college, continue to play the sport that you love, move away, or serve your community wherever you go. Class of 2020 you are beautiful, messy, loud, kind, easily inspired, hard working, hilarious, outspoken, courageous, humble, and sometimes very annoying.... congratulations! I love you to the moon and back.

He Was The Best Of Us

I've tried writing something down. I've tried to close my eyes tight enough to where this isn't real anymore. I've cried myself to sleep. I've hugged the young people I love dearly, without any words attached. I've scrolled through endless posts with a new hashtag. I've gone through multiple stages of grief in a few days time... shock, denial, pain, anger... but it always ends in sadness. 

Sadness is the scariest one of all. Because it doesn’t ask for permission to enter your heart. It doesn’t apologize for creeping in and settling down for who knows how long. This time… it will be forever. 

When I read the text that Ladonya had died... the air left my lungs. I didn't cuss. I didn't yell at God. I just wanted to go back to school and have him follow me to group because he saw donuts. I wanted him to laugh with his friends again. I wanted him to put the underdogs on his pick up team one more time... I wanted to get the image of his blood covered body out of my head. 

The text came after the call... I didn’t ask questions… but I knew.

I half walked, half ran down the sidewalk between Osage and the little park. 

Shit shit… God come on keep him alive. They are okay. Shit. 

It was all a blur. screaming. crying. cops. our boys. caution tape. 

Then I saw him.

Blood everywhere. His eyes... 

Ladonya. 

My gut reaction was to reach out and grab him. I just kept telling him we were with him and that it was gonna be okay. I wish that wouldn’t feel like a lie. That chill will never leave me. 

Cops started asking questions. They kept talking to me... That is when I lost it. But a friend reminded me that I had kids watching me and I needed to pull it together. I blinked a few times and looked around. She was right. There were kids walking through the cut, kids looking over their fences, kids on the sidewalk, kids at the park... I knew most, if not all of them. And they know Ladonya. 

Flash forward and the nightmare doesn't end. The devil doesn't just accept one loss... he wants them all. He wants to rip our community, our families... our kids, apart. The lives of his closest friends have been forever altered... and for what? No one has been able to answer that yet... He should still be alive. They should all be safe at home. Mothers should be able to hug their sons. 

Today I watched our neighborhood come together to honor Ladonya's life. In the middle of a pandemic. Even the police stood back to let everyone give their respect. The streets were lined with cars and the entire little park was filled. All for him. Young men and women I have watched grow up, in tears. After almost 2 months of not seeing some of my babies and grown up babies... we were reunited under the worst of circumstances. But it proved to me one thing.

He was the best of us.

The Sun Will Come Out Again

2.6.20

I walked through the door and was finally allowed to let go. Cry. Scream. Feel. I found out through a private message, in a gym full of kids playing basketball. It didn’t feel real. I told myself it couldn’t be. 

“Dale died in a car accident tonight.” 

This couldn’t be our, Dale. 

Nothing or no one to blame. It was just an accident. 

He was always there. Always around. Smiling. He was just. Dale. 

This is how every message I was sent that night and next morning went. “Dude we were just together!” Or “remember when we used to sing so loud to make you laugh?” Yeah. I remember. I remember a young teenage boy, everyone’s friend, no one's enemy. I wish I had some amazing story to tell you about Dale. One that would make you understand why he was so loved… but there isn’t one that’s flashy or loud. Why? Because he was the foundation of who we were then. The glue even. He wasn’t the first one picked for 5 on 5 but he was no ones 6th man. The girls thought he was just their goof ball brother from another mother and he would be there if another boy got too close. Even the little ones looked up to him. His quiet peace and big smile could light up any room. And it always did. His picture still hangs in the community center I once spent every day in. Watching over all the new babies that come in. They won’t know who it is personally, but they will feel welcomed each time they see his face. 

My heart knows he’s with Jesus. I’ve never been more sure of something before. Jesus would be silly not to let him in. Telling jokes, spitting beats, and smiling all the time. Everyone needs a friend like Dale. I know I did, even if I didn’t know it then, I am thankful and honored to have watched him grow into a you f man, for the time I did.

So much of this world is dark, cold, evil, and unfair. But Dale was our little corner of home away from home while he was here on earth. I didn’t get to know him like I wish I did, partially cause so many of his “siblings” were much louder, much more present in the chaos of our family dynamics. Part of me wants to regret that, the other part of me is thankful he was able to be the stable glue for them, while I helped others remove the weight on their shoulders in the forefront. It takes a village and tonight, our village feels both far away, and so very close. 

I always worry if I ruined those beautiful kids. If I set them up to fail. But on nights like tonight, when we all come back together, in person or on the phone, I remember why it was a good thing. It still is a good thing we are a family. I’m thankful for an opportunity to be a small part of the story. To cheer them on. To cry with them. To hold them accountable. To be silly. To be their sister. I didn’t know how to be one before them. In fact, I’m still learning. But they gave me the gift of practice, and I’ll never take that for granted. 

I won’t forget the moments when my phone rings and it’s my mini me and he asks if I can show up, tonight, in his city. That he’s a senior now and without saying it, he tells me that I am part of this story. With basketball. With graduation and growing up. With suffering. With victory. I know how hard it is to pick up a phone and tell someone you want or need… insert whatever. And to be so young. I couldn’t have moved quicker out the door. 

My heart couldn’t have been more full watching him do his thing. To be surrounded by people that chose me. That keep choosing me. People that trusted me when I was so young, to help their child do well. I’ll never understand it. Looking back now, I had no idea what the hell was gonna happen beyond those first days together. Day in and day out. We fought. We disagreed. We doubted. But for some reason we kept showing up. And kept encouraging. Kept praying. Kept hugging. Till now. Where time and space feel like forever and far. But somehow the love never left. 

So we honor, Dale. With our smiles. And our jokes. And our willingness to be part of the team. No matter if we’re chosen first, last or in between. And as a family.

R.I.P Dale. 

2.16.20

I searched for a newly dug grave today. Wandering among spirits that had been there long before his. I even saw someone being lowered into the ground and I wondered how they had died. The emotions didn’t hit me till the man digging the grave drove up and said, “was he around 20 something? Buried yesterday?” And then nodded in the direction of raised sod and quickly moved away to give me my space. Almost immediately my eyes watered, because the suddenness of this loss was heavy, and knowing what my own city and ministry family has gone through this past week... losing Antwan to a bullet that wasn’t even meant for him. I let go of the tears I had kept inside longer than they are meant to. I spoke out loud to a young man I knew as my kids best friend... I told him they missed him, that I missed him. I asked him to hug Zae for everyone... and that he was loved. I touched the muddy grass that still has no marker for identification. Grief is a weird thing. I think it’s especially hard when its for someone young, something unexpected, an act of violence or an accident... I’ve tried to suppress the anger or fear or sadness... overcompensating for everyone else’s sake. Peoples “hugs or prayers” feel like a pile of mail that goes unattended at an abandoned house. I can’t imagine what the mommas feel. The sun came out for a few seconds and it meant everything to me. No life passes through this earth without purpose. I think the young men that just left this earth have a much greater purpose than they ever knew while alive. It was their light. Their smiles. Their willingness to be a little silly. Those moments provided us with a gift of joy. Seeing the very place where I grew to love young people, in a new capacity, today was what my soul needed to keep going. A reminder that the hard days will be many, but so worth it, because the sun will come out again.

working title: no more smoke and mirrors at home

Just to preface. 

I'm not a writer and never claimed to be.

I started this thing what feels like so long ago because I felt the need for accountability. 

Whether that be from the public or just from myself looking at archives years down the road. 

I have the heart and mind of someone whose spirit isn't truly free unless it lets things go. 

Through words. Written or spoken. 

And when that doesn't happen... things start to weigh heavier and heavier. 

I feel trapped, or like there is an emotional and physical barrier 

that keeps me from where I am meant to be. 

I never intended for this to have a following. 

But what this has confirmed for me over the years, 

is that I am not alone in the feeling of needing a space to speak. 

To write it out. To be heard in some weird way. 

I say all this to say... I have forced myself to sit here again and string together whatever I can from the racing thoughts that have no true home. 

I am doing this because one day, this too big of a heart, 

will be just big enough to quit,

 and I will want to have memory of the times I truly expressed myself

 in a capacity separate from my physical voice.

And that brings me to my next thought of how this season in my life has been one of the heaviest. Surprising to some maybe. 

Because now I have the dream job, in my childhood city, 

my parents are down the street, my siblings moved back. 

The list goes on and on. 

This... whatever this is. Was supposed to be the end all for me. 

And yet, 

darkness waited for me to get comfortable. 

Recently I heard someone say, people ought to stop blaming the devil for their hard days, 

because it's us falling into our own comfort-ability, that is the true hardship to overcome. 

I made my own path, I was, I am, my worst critic. 

I placed all of my joy in others, when they had their own demons to fight themselves. 

I know better now.

I know that my darkness was masked terribly this year. 

I chalked it up to needing to show up for others or that I would seem weak or lost. 

In years passed maybe I was happy and didn't need to hide anything. 

This year... this year I can only remember being truly happy a few times. 

Don't hear this as a lack of Joy. 

But know that day to day... happiness is the perception of the previous. 

I had friends, my kids even, ask me if I was okay. 

Ask me if I needed help connecting the dots or taking a step to talking to someone. 

It wasn't till others in my world showed me the blood on their own bodies 

that I was even willing to say this wasn't sustainable. 

And that is why I share or write or whatever. 

Because there is someone else, just like me, drowning. 

And hoping someone will say, I can't breathe either, but here comes our life jacket. 

A lot of my kids considered my personality to be "sunshine" like my last car, 

but I felt and feel like rain. 

But the kind you can dance in. 

I think that was the biggest lesson I learned about myself in 2019. 

People can perceive you however they want, that doesn't mean you have to buy it at face value for yourself. 

Because dancing in the rain is something I really enjoy. 

I turned 25 a few weeks ago and it felt like my world was ending. 

Getting older is weird, especially when 90% of your time is spent around young people. 

Everything about that situation felt claustrophobic and mandatory. 

It was black Friday and I had family in. None of it was their fault. 

I just always feel the need to maintain everyone's elses... whatever... why we are together. 

They didn't pass out job descriptions at my family gatherings. 

But I always seem to end up with, "mediator or "glue" or "perspective" and that doesn't really balance well when you're watching the days tick by on your "young adult" calendar. 

Anyway... I survived of course and realized then that being 

sunshine and also darkness didn't make sense for me anymore. 

Thus. Rain. 

The last time I wrote something there wasn't threat of snow... 

We were celebrating giving out a scholarship. 

And my prayer over the next 5, 10, 20 years is that every year there be an abundance of our kids receiving money from us, schools, scholarships etc. 

Because people will see the spectacularly vibrant family I am a part of and not be able to look away. 

I went to Atlanta because God knew I needed to jump up and down 

for hours and hours around people that are unashamedly themselves. 

The siblings and I got older. 

I said goodbye to my little yellow car.

We celebrated 20 years as a nonprofit. 

I blinked and realized that the ministry I have been part of has become its own little family. 

Spending everyday in the schools or evenings getting to know

 the students are kids have invited to be part of the program (fam). 

They have formed their own sort of discipleship by invitation and we could all learn from it.

We ran a marathon worth of events that honestly feel like a blur. 

We cried over lost lives and celebrated over new babies. 

I'm not sure what all this new and old means. End of a decade. Start of a new season and year. Growing and trimming at my own roots. 

Maybe this is why I had such a hard time to piece it all together over the last three months. 

I can't see land quite yet. 

But so many beautiful people have thrown out life lines, 

disguised as undeserving blessings in my mind, 

but we all know they are doing it because I wouldn't survive without it. 

I unfollowed a bunch of people.

 I made some really bad financial decisions.

 I put a little more effort into myself... which is hardly anything but should still be acknowledge.

 I am telling myself 2020 is the year I allow myself to receive. 

To receive the blessing without an excuse of being undeserving, 

to receive love without questioning my own worth, 

to receive help when it is needed... or even before, 

to receive change, newness, loss, and victory as it is. 

It is still developing. But I knew I needed to claim it before I doubted its validity so there it is. Receive. Not deny. Not decline. Not anxiety or doubt. Not anger. 

Receive.