Activate Healing

Forgiving others can be hard, but the act is necessary. Notice that I said act because forgiving is not words we say but actions we perform. But before speaking to or doing for another, we must acknowledge that we have an issue with that person. Doing this can be hard for everyone, including traditional strong black women who tend to ignore pains inflicted on us; our lives are so full of activities that we may think we don’t have time to stop to deal with someone who has offended us. Or maybe we don’t want to admit that someone hurt our feelings because doing so makes us look weak. And perhaps we think being vulnerable is not a position we can afford to be in.

Well, we must risk missing a deadline and being vulnerable so that we make amends. This is for our health and the health of others. In keeping with my observance of National Poetry Month, I posted the poem The Making of Unforgiveness on Friday. On Saturday I ministered at a women’s retreat on the topic of forgiveness. In one exercise I had the women rewrite this poem to reflect someone who they hadn’t forgiven. I had them title their poem My Making of Unforgiveness. The women began to unearth things, many they had buried years ago. By their own admission, through this exercise many women began to heal. I challenge you to rewrite the poem to fit your situation and let me know the effect the process has on you. I look forward to hearing from you.

Copyright 2010 by Rhonda J. Smith

Unlikely Shero

I’m not a socialist or feminist and never thought of myself as either of these. Never found myself on a blacklist, the FBIs Most Wanted List or serving or working in a prison, though I never know what may be in store for me. I don’t advocate lesbianism or atheism, but Angela Y. Davis has been associated with all these, and she is my shero.
Continue reading

Supernatural Sister

Me & my best friend Nichole wearing t-shirts she designed: Walk by Faith and Fear Less, Hope More

I wasn’t looking for any more friends, was satisfied with the ones I had—old and true not giving me the blues like some relationships I knew about. But I found her, Nichole M. Christian, at a college journalism program meeting in Detroit, and I loved her right away. Continue reading

Sister Love

We always got carded in high school, my sister, Sharon, and me, not because we were trying to buy drinks or get into the club but because of our love for each other. People couldn’t believe we were sisters so we had to show them our driver’s licenses to prove that we lived in the same home. They saw that our love was refreshing and ran deep, like ever flowing springs beyond a desert. This love quenches my thirst for laughter, a safe space, and a reality check, and makes me okay with being put in check if need be. This love is between me and the Rev. Sharon D. Moore, my biological sister and very best friend.

At one time I had a problem saying that she was my very best friend because I have a group of women who I consider my best friends. But beyond biology, when I consider our history and the constancy of our intimacy, I am compelled to show you our identification. She’s my confidante and my giggle girl; we can talk and laugh for hours and never want the time to end. She is total comfort. But this comfort has been steady coming, finally arriving as we have both grown in the Lord and long to treat each other like He does. Before this, we had a few issues. Like many siblings, there was some rivalry, never jealousy about looks or positions. All I remember is that we fought because she liked to wear my stuff and I wasn’t having that. But that period was short-lived. We became allies in 1980 when I was 11 and she was 12. We made a pact not to tell my mom that we fought, an act that would cancel our long-planned trip to California. We stopped fighting then but that’s when Sharon consistently began to fight for me.

She fought my fear: When I got my period, she counseled and coached me through, stroking my knee as she knelt next to me as I sat on the toilet. In junior high she pledged to protect me from the gangs that plagued our schools. She let me hang with her and her friends, 8th and 9th graders no one dared to mess with.

She fought my “loneliness”: I’ve always had my own group of friends and so has she, but if she thought that she was going to have more fun than I she would beg me to join her. And sometimes I just wanted to stay home, but she would choose my outfit and insist I go out with her.

She fought my obsessions and depressions: The times I wondered about my looks, wondered if I had what it took to catch a boy, she was there building me up. She told me about my beauty, what others should see and what was inside me. Sharon never let me think less of myself, only the best of myself and the best for myself.

She fought for my success: Sharon fighting my fear, loneliness, obsessions and depressions clearly helped to make me successful, but she has been on my team helping me fulfill my dreams. She was my campaign manager for my senior class secretary run, promotes my writing by telling people of my service and supports my preaching and teaching by attending and inviting me to speak at engagements. Sharon’s a prayer warrior and prophet for me, seeking God on my behalf and speaking his word to my soul. Besides my husband, she is my greatest cheerleader. Her fight for me has given us a great level of intimacy.

I love Sharon for her love for me but the greater reason is her love the Lord Jesus and people. She wants everyone to be okay. She’s always been this way, a little evangelist, converting hearts and minds from hurt. She knows how to make you feel warm and good about yourself. Sharon did this in her flesh. Now with the strength of the Holy Spirit she’s even bolder so that others know about salvation through Jesus. She’s got a lot of nerve. I love to watch her work to bring others to wholeness and healing with the power of Jesus. She’s a fighter for Him, and she is my shero.

My sister, the Rev. Sharon D. Moore (front row, 3rd from right), assistant pastor of Detroit's Ebenezer AME Church, being honored by The Michigan Chronicle in its Salute to First Ladies in 2010

Copyright 2010 by Rhonda J. Smith

Pretty, Precious Gracie

She had long hair, gray eyes, caramel brown skin, and a lisp, and I wanted to be just like her, Gracie, my babysitter, with the hippest bell bottoms that she wore to cover her Earth Shoes. I willed my hair longer, wished for gray eyes, was happy my skin looked like hers and pulled my regular pants below my waist so I, too, could have dragging pants. Gracie was pretty and sweet and smelled good too, like the first scent of flowers in spring. I added bacon to my grits with a sprinkle of pepper because this is how Gracie, 15 years my senior, ate her grits. Every chance I got my school-girl self became Gracie, my neighbor who watched me and my siblings from infancy until we could stay home alone. But even after she stopped sitting, I longed to be like her.

I wanted Greg, the only boyfriend I remember Gracie having until she met David, who is now her husband. Greg was a tall and thin chocolate brown honey with a huge Afro and sports car. He and Gracie would take me for rides, just rides; we wouldn’t go anywhere in particular. Gracie laughed and snuggled with Greg and I snickered in the backseat. Though she was into him, she was never loud or lewd, and Greg seemed to worship her. I wanted Greg to be my boyfriend. When I went on rides with them I pretended he was; I just allowed Gracie to sit in the front seat and snuggle. But with Gracie being pretty, smart and smiley and me sitting in the back sit, I knew I didn’t have a chance with Greg. Gracie found out she didn’t either, though. I remember her and my mom talking in hushed tones and Gracie shaking her head knowingly. I don’t know what happened, but I know Gracie knew that Greg wasn’t good for her. I never saw him with Gracie again.

After that she smiled a bit less for a while, but she didn’t stop. She never let anything stop her. Not an unstable family life. Not skipping college to work so she could live on her own. Not challenges in her own family. Whether job loss, house loss, or loved one loss, she has remained focused and hopeful. Though I first loved Gracie because she was pretty and smelled good, I began to love her more for her strength to make the hard decisions, to go forward when others would have walked away. This determination sprang from her human spirit but has been sustained by the Holy Spirit, who came to reside in her when she accepted Jesus Christ as her savior. Still I long to be like her, now because of her determination to please God, no matter what the cost. Janet “Gracie” Hector, with her sweet smiling saved self, is my lifetime shero.

Copyright 2010 by Rhonda J. Smith