“Stop right there,” he said with a finger pointed at nothing in particular. “If you will, I’d like to ask you to just stay there for just a moment. Tell me about your mom.”
“Sorry, there’s not much I can tell you about my mother. I don’t know much about her.” I needed to tell him about my incompetent boss.
“Well, try,” he said. “Tell me what you
do
know about your mother.”
“But that’s just it!” I looked him in the eye. “She died when I was five, so I don’t know anything!”
The little black man just stared back at me. Like he didn’t believe me. What was his problem? I guess I’d decided that I liked him a little too soon. I looked at him sternly, silent. The first one to speak lost. I folded my arms, because like I’d already said, I didn’t know my mother. He didn’t budge. He must have been stupid or something. If a person didn’t know something, then she just didn’t know!
His green eyes were on me. Trying to pierce me open. After what felt like thirty minutes of silence, they did. I was there for my benefit, and nobody else’s.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll try.” I took a long breath before I began. “Umm, I know that my mother was a painter. She made beautiful artwork. She never thought she could have kids because—” Oh God, what was I doing? “Because she had sickle-cell and she had fibroid cysts in her cervix. She had them so bad that before I was born, the doctors removed one of her fallopian tubes. She often said that I was her miracle baby, and she always said that I was supposed to be someone great.” My voice cracked as I said, “She should have never had me, though.”
“Why do you say that, Chantell?”
Emotion swept over me and caused my face to contort into what was probably an awful expression. I tried to contain it. I tried to regroup, but there was no turning back.
The therapist took a tissue out of the box on his desk and gave it to me.
“She shouldn’t have had kids,” I said. “She was too sick to have children. She’d probably still be here.”
“Chantell, have you ever told anyone that you felt this way?”
“No,” I said.
“How did she pass away?” he asked.
“The sickle-cell. She neglected her body. She was a real go-getter, and it put her in the hospital pretty often. Once she started feeling even a tiny bit better, she’d demand to go home. She didn’t like sitting in hospital beds, but she didn’t like laying up in the house either.”
“You sound a lot like your mother. Being driven and all.”
I liked hearing that. It made me smile. “She was patient, and a wonderful mom. We’d often go to street fairs together, and explore the world on the weekends.”
“Chantell, do you think that you’re the reason that your mother isn’t here?”
I looked at the floor and nibbled at the side of my lip. He was going too far. Why was he asking so many questions?
“I don’t know.”
“Chantell, you’re an intelligent woman. Surely you know that if your mother was sick, and if she didn’t find the time to take good care of herself, then her getting sicker is not your fault. How could you have made her sick?”
I just looked at the floor and jiggled my knee.
He fired away again, “When was the last time you talked about your mother?”
I shrugged. “I never talk about my mother.”
“Do you remember how you felt when she died?”
I looked at him with a blank expression, then I said, “Like someone had pulled the rug out from under me. That’s a stupid question!”
He didn’t seem affected by my lashing. He just kept going. “Listen to me. You know that life is not always fair. When it’s not, there is nothing wrong with crying. God did not promise us fairness, Chantell. And we don’t know why things happen, but the Bible does teach us, in the book of Ecclesiastes, the third chapter, that ‘To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven,’ and Chantell, you’re not responsible for your mother’s not being with us.”
Well, I sure felt responsible, and I felt alone. Trying to get ahold of myself, I wiped my eyes and folded my arms.
“Listen, you don’t have anything to prove to any of us. It’s okay to say, ‘This hurts me’ or ‘I feel bad when that happens,’ or to just cry.”
We were both quiet.
“Let me ask you this: Let’s say you’ve had a bad day at work, or better yet, let’s say you’ve had a disagreement with a friend. How do you handle situations like that?”
“Oh, I don’t worry about things like that. I don’t depend on anyone. I make my own money. I make my own mortgage payments. I take myself on vacations. I don’t have to worry about that type of thing.”
It sounded stupid after I said it. But I’d said it so many times before that it just came out. In the past, I’d been proud to say, “I lean on me.” But I wasn’t so certain that it was the answer to my life’s problems anymore.
I was quiet.
It shocked me when Dr. Brown said, “Chantell, you know what? I think you were right to spend some time away from work. You took off work in a rather colorful way, but it sounds like you were burned out and I think it was a good thing. You were trying to spend more time with yourself. You should do more of that. Feel your feelings. Do you understand what I am saying to you?”
With a balled-up tissue in my hand, I nodded. I think I understood what he was saying, but I had another question. “Doctor, do people really change? I mean, if you’ve been doing something for a really, really long time, then aren’t you just that way?”
He smiled and said, “What a wonderful question. People can change and they do change all the time. You can change because God will allow you to change. Second Corinthians 5:17 states very clearly, ‘Therefore if any man be in Christ, he is a new creature: old things are passed away: behold all things are become new.’ You just have to believe God, and want to change.”
That was good to know. I thought maybe I wanted to make some changes.
Then there was a small chime of a bell, and he said, “Well, that’s our time for today. I think that you’ve done a lot. What do you think?”
“I think I agree,” I said.
It didn’t feel like a whole hour had passed. “Thank you, Dr. Brown.”
“You’re quite welcome. Would you like to make another appointment?”
I thought for a moment. “Maybe.” I needed to absorb all of this. “I’ll call you.”
“I sure hope you do.” Looking at me, he added, “And remember, through Him, anything is possible.”
I left the big old house and walked down to the Church Street intersection to hail a cab.
Go Fly a Kite
I
had to walk out of the residential neighborhood to find a cab. On the way, I saw a homeless man. San Francisco had a serious homeless problem. There were homeless people everywhere.
The man had on a beige tweed hat with a snap in the front that reminded me of a duck’s bill. He had on a dirty tie-dyed T-shirt with the sleeves ripped off. Clearly the shirt once had been bright purple and blue and yellow. His long straggly brown hair hung wildly past his shoulders. He had a stocky build and he wore black sweatpants and no shoes.
He pushed a shopping cart that was filled to the rim with stuff. In it, I saw a Hula-Hoop, and five or six different pieces of cardboard that were smashed up against the wall of the cart. The most visible one read, “54 cents will make my day. God Bless.” He also had a rolled-up sleeping bag, a smashed painting that was missing the top side of its wooden frame, a bag of cans, and a worn brown leather shoe. I wondered if its match was in there somewhere among the stuff.
We walked down the tree-lined street, and eventually we crossed paths. He looked straight ahead, rambling on to himself. Then, like a town crier, he yelled deliriously at no one. He spoke passionately, as though he was sent by a royal family from a faraway land to awaken everyone and bring them to their senses.
He said, “Dear Fellowmen: It is with great pleasure that I inform you that you all must carry kites. Carry your kite with you, and fly it on windy days. We have a wise king who knows what is best. This simple pleasure will make a world of difference in your lives. As simple as using your son’s picture as a bookmark or holding on to your daughter’s childhood toy. So take heed I say, and have your kite near, for it is the law!”
He yelled, “So again, everyone,
everyone
must carry a kite! . . .”
Once we’d passed each other, I looked back at him. He pushed the cart with one hand and made big gestures and hand motions with the other. Each time he took a step, I could see the bottoms of his oily feet.
I walked a few more paces, then stopped. My dad and I have always had a thing about the homeless people. I reached into my purse and took out some money from the side pocket. I put my shoulder bag over my head so that it hung crossways like an old-fashioned newspaper boy would carry his papers. I turned and ran back to the babbling man.
“Excuse me, excuse me,” I said, panting like I’d run a marathon. “Here you go.” I handed him two twenties. “Go eat,” I said, “and buy yourself a pair of shoes.”
“Thank you,” he said.
“No sir, thank you.” I turned around and continued back down Church Street to the busy intersection.
“Come now,” he called after me. “It’s an order. Everyone must carry a kite!”
What Is Love?
I
pulled into the residency dorms behind the Oakland Children’s Hospital and blew the horn. Keith came out of the building wearing a pair of antiqued faded jeans and a white button-down shirt with a blue pullover sweater. He opened the door and got in.
“You ready to do this?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “Let’s roll.”
We arrived at the Faith Center a few minutes early. We walked into the church arm in arm and found seats in the back center pews.
“It feels good to be back in here,” Keith said.
I had to agree. The church filled up quickly, and in no time at all, we were shoulder to shoulder with other members. A little girl, maybe a year old, was in front of us. Her mother held her so that she stood up in her lap and faced Keith and me. She had little brown chubby cheeks and four black, cushiony ponytails. She smiled at us and babbled. Keith smiled, and I waved my index finger at her.
“Look, there’s Pastor Fields!” he said excitedly. “I want to say hello.” It seemed he had no inhibitions. He looked at his watch and said, “After church.”
Keith was so much more open than I was. He didn’t care if people saw his emotion, be it happy or sad. He just put it out there for the whole world to see. I loved that about him.
A gentleman announcer in gray slacks, a gray shirt, and a black plaid tie walked up to the microphone and welcomed everyone. “Are there any first-time visitors here with us today?” he asked.
Several people stood up. Keith whispered, “Maybe they’ll ask for members who haven’t been here in fifteen years to stand next, huh?”
I laughed. “Don’t hold your breath.”
The greeter told them that they were welcome and asked if anyone would like to say a few words.
One man said, “Praise God. I am Charles Mathers here visiting from Missouri. I belong to Missionary Zion Baptist Church in St. Louis, and I just wanted to say that I saw this church on my way to my hotel on Friday morning, and the Spirit led me here. I’m very happy to be here with you all today.” Another lady spoke: “I bring you greetings from Love and Friendship Community Church in Sacramento . . .”
A few more people commented while the little girl in front of us kept reaching over and trying to pull the flower off the hat of the lady next to her. Her mother was busy listening to the speakers and hadn’t noticed what the baby was trying to do. The mother listened and rocked from side to side. The baby’s eyes would light up with excitement as she drew near the flower and the netting that sat on top of the lady’s hat. Her little fingers would open and close as if she were practicing how she would grip it if she just got her hands on it. But her mother always seemed to pull in the other direction just in the nick of time.
Pastor Fields got up and began to give the sermon. Everyone was quiet. I was still a little shocked by the number of young people who were present. They took in every word like each one was a vitamin or a nutrient. There were young ladies with blue braids and tattoos on their backs, and rings in their lips and eyebrows. There were guys there with their pants four sizes too big, with cornrows, and twists, and Afros, and dreads. The scenery was a far cry from the frilly dresses and the polyester-pant-wearing church days that I remembered.
The pastor spoke about the twelve disciples of Jesus, and how He chastised them about keeping their faith, and not doubting. The message was helpful, practical, and for me educational because I’d always thought those guys were near-perfect.
Pastor Fields asked us to turn our Bibles to Jeremiah 29:11. I swished the pages of my Bible with an expression on my face that said I knew where all of the books were.
She read it aloud:
For I know the thoughts that I think of toward you, saith the Lord, thoughts of peace and not of evil, to give you an expected end.
“Did you hear that? Read it with me.” And the people did.
“Memorize that, and get it in your spirit,” she said. She told us that God wanted good things for us, and that he gave us what we expected. I found the right page too late to read along, but I heard the message just the same. Well, actually, Keith set his Bible down and showed me where the passage was, and I bookmarked it.
The baby girl in front of me smiled and made a little gurgling sound while eyeing the bright cloth flower. Her mom swayed to the left a bit too much, and before anybody realized it, the toddler had a red cloth flower in her hand and was munching on it. The mother immediately apologized and tried to get the flower out of the little girl’s grasp. The baby refused. The mom had to pry the flower out of her baby’s tight little grip.
The choir stood up and sang a gospel song that sounded like reggae. In a really deep voice, the tenor sang,
“Clap ya hands for Je-sus. Give him all de praise! Clap ya hands for Je-sus. Oh ya, clap ya hands. Bouyaka! Bouyaka! Bouyaka! Whoooo!”
The congregation clapped their hands, and everyone was up and praise-dancing, including Keith and me. It was spiritual. It was exuberant. It felt great. And it made it very easy for me to close my eyes and talk with God.