#welcomehomewoodhill

If you've known me for longer than 5 minutes you probably know where and who I consider, "home."

Home... like a good friend I look up to shared a couple weeks ago... is where our people are. It's where we find rest. It is also where we get really passionate about things not being how they should be. It is a place where you are intentional. My home just happens to be Woodhill. 

Don't get me wrong... I love Lexington as a whole. I love San Diego, Santa Cruz, Harlem, Jackson, Knoxville, Boca, D.C. etc. I have a little image of home in each of those places. But Woodhill has always been where my people are, and where a little girl dreamed of having a home with a basement and a yard where kids and families can just be. 

Fast forward to the year 2021... with a lot of prayer, patience, (some impatience too) and a very out of the norm blessing in disguise... that little girls dream of a house in Woodhill, with a basement and backyard has become a reality!  

Yes. I bought my first house! It just so happens to be my mentors current house... and they haven't been able to move into their new home yet... so really it seems right on par for how our lives typically go. We dream real big and then we gotta wait for the rest of the world to catch up with us!

But now it's really really close... like I just looked at paint colors and we moved the kitchen table over to their new spot (just down the road). So while we inch closer and closer to this new reality. Please keep on praying over the transition, the countless memories that have and will be made, that neighbors continue to feel more like family than strangers... and that I somehow magically learn how to manage an entire house like a real adult...sheesh. 

No, but on a serious note... this is all God. And if you wanna know just how good the Creator is, use this wild ride as an example! This last little bit of life has felt like a never ending pit of darkness... so when I remind myself of the promises the Lord has kept, and that the homie hasn't forgotten me or my people... I am extremely grateful. 

So, if you've made it this far on the journey with me, you're awesome. I'll cry forever over this one... but just know when the time comes and its safe for us to have the biggest housewarming party known to humankind. It will absolutely be happening! 

In the meantime, if you feel compelled to help me furnish this epic blessing with cute and functional things... you can find my registry's below. 

https://www.target.com/gift-registry/gift/welcomehomewoodhill 

https://www.amazon.com/hz/wishlist/ls/396AW3KMDS0FG?ref_=wl_share

#welcomehomewoodhill

365 Days Later

I looked up the definition of survivors guilt… 

“Survivors guilt is a mental condition that occurs when a person believes they have done something wrong by surviving a traumatic or tragic event when others did not, often feeling self-guilt.

A variant form has been found among rescue and emergency services personnel who blame themselves for doing too little to help those in danger, and among therapists, who may feel a form of guilt in the face of their patients' suffering.”

///

I remember watching him pick at the skin peeling off his very fresh tattoo... while several adults talked about next steps... "my brothers keeper" in big block letters across his forearm. The name of that brother woven within the sentence. Up to that point he hadn't looked up at us. Head bowed, eyes blank. But when I took his arm to examine the ink and commented on how "he would love this." I got a nod of approval. 

No one prepared us for the guilt and shame we have.

No one prepared us for this hardness inside our souls. 

No one prepared them to watch their best friend die. 

///

All we can manage to do some days is... Asking the same questions. Praying the same prayers. Crying and screaming for help but nothing has changed. And yet everything has changed. 

I am tired of believing the lie that my job is to go to funerals and vigils instead of graduations. 

///

365 days later. 

365 days after I reached out for him. 

365 days after blood spilled & our community wouldn’t ever be the same again. 

365 days our hearts have longed for change. 

I hope no one ever has to experience a young person's face being revealed as they are turned over in the grass. I’ve prayed for the nightmares to stop. For the images of violence to be removed. That memories of him laughing and playing ball and hanging out in the front yard would take over my mind. 

365 days later and the total number of young people lost to gun violence in Lexington, Knoxville, Louisville, Chicago, Minneapolis, Los Angeles, etc. has doubled its usual average. 

Day after day after day. 

We hear of another child killed.

Eventually you start believing lies. 

You believe things like you could have done more. It should have been you. What if this or that would have happened instead. 

The guilt takes over. The lack of hope feels heavy. And like I wrote 365 days ago, the sadness creeps in without your permission. And if I knew then what I know now... I would have told myself to let go. To release those lies. To grieve and heal and not to become numb like I am today. To breathe in and out and pray for the strength I still haven’t been able to muster on my own.

There isn’t a single day that goes by that I don’t think of or pray for my kids. I think of how so many lives changed that day. I think how we are so far from where we need to be. And other times I recognize how far we've come. 

I had dread about this day on the calendar… Like once I turn the page something horrible would happen. But the reality is. Horrible things have happened and beautiful things have happened nearly all 365 days since we lost Donya. 

What is important is will I sit in a pit of hopelessness or will I fight to stand tall another day? Will I work hard to make sure this trauma can’t happen again? Will I let go of the things I feel I need to be in control of and just let God be God? Or will I believe lies that cripple me from being who I was meant to be? 

This year has been so many people feeling guilt, shame, sadness and anger. I hope we can lay those things down and know that's not what God wants for us. And it's not what our boy would want. There will be joy for us yet.

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.