Tender places also need to be touched, but with a gentle hand.
Neglect doesn’t make the tender parts less so; it just amplifies the longing for a touch that is informed and compassionate; a hand that takes the time to learn what feels like trust, like love, like care.
This is a rehearsal. This is a prayer.
I grew up with fear as my shepherd. I don’t blame my parents for this; they love/d me with the tools they were given, and bequeathed me with a miraculous measure of gentleness, considering the abuse they weathered. I was spanked; they were battered. Fear was the gift they could offer because their worlds were utterly unsafe and unpredictable.
Again, fear shepherded me, setting a table with a cup of anxiety about failing my parents and my kin and my God. I had better excel in school, I had better save myself for marriage, I had better not question the Bible, and I had better not chat back at my parents. Crossing those lines was like crossing an unforgivable abyss of worth and salvation.
When fear sets the table, the presence of my enemies is amplified, the drink goes down like vinegar, and the choicest morsel tranforms to dry cotton in my throat. The greenest pasture prickles gray. Vigilance and worry follow me, seemingly all the days of my life. Abudance is usurped by a joyless pragmatism. There is nothing to look forward to except the next attack or disappointment, because being a sheep under the care of fear is knowing, always, that I am prey. Step out of line and be devoured.
Being a sheep under the care of fear is knowing, always, that I am prey.
My world has always been filled with the preaching of Jesus and the strength of the gospel, but the Good News, pragmatically, could not save the girls who crossed these lines. These lines drew electric fences around my thoughts and movements, dictating my hems and necklines, confounding my curiosity about what it would be like to be kissed; threatening me for feeling outrage and disgust while reading about Jephthah’s daughter and the Levite’s concubine.
I went so deep within myself to stay within these lines that I am still drawing myself out. To this day. To this day. So much of my spiritual formation tacitly involved evasive measures and self-defense. My arms went numb sifting love and discipleship from benevolent misogyny. My hands got tired of swatting prying hands from my curls, my breasts, or anything else that appealed as exotic to both men and women who bypassed my consent to touch. My back and neck got tired of shrinking to accomodate the docile nature of a Black woman in proper, quiet submission to God. This was no place for for the weary or heavy-laden. What is it like to be protected by a good shepherd? Why do shepherds feel the same as wolves? When is it safe to come out?
I thought that fear was God. I thought that Love was horrifying; murdering firstborns to set me free.
I thought that fear was God. I thought that Love was horrifying; murdering firstborns to set me free. Jesus still feels like a scheme; a grift. God who is with us? God who feels at ease in the womb of a woman? God whose conversations with women show no disdain or condescension? God who would rather die than lay waste? God who will not rape me or assault me depending on what I wear (and will, in fact, protect my naked body from the righteous hordes)?
The God who Sees, sees me?
The God who Sees, sees me.
I am devoted to looking at this picture of myself at least once a day:
It is an act of worship to daily practice looking at Little Girl Me with the tenderness that sprouts when fear is cast out by a loving Shepherd; to see her at ease because her Mommy is holding her up—in joy. This is who I am trusting God to be. It is radical radical radical for me (a Christian since age 5) to see God extending tender mother-love to me; a love that will not recoil when I lean in. A love that laughs as it carries.
This is my reasonable service; to present my body to the Love of God and say to Little Girl Me, “I will take care of you today by keeping fear in its place and letting you play, ask, and risk,” because I know that God won’t abandon me. Power, love, and a sound mind are mine to receive. That, and tenderness. Tender hands, holding me.
This is a rehearsal. This is a prayer: to lean into that love and extend an invitation for Goodness and Mercy to follow me.
Well damn sis. This was beautiful. And I kept thinking about my kids, particularly my daughter, who already has the same tendencies I've wrestled with around behavior being tied to worthiness. I would give anything for her to live her moments as joy, as being known, as being held and loved and protected simply because she has breath. May your moments be full of this too, Beloved. 💙
That picture is pure joy. What a great icon.