fling with a black woman dashed.
It was still early when I got home. My soul was both thirsty and curious. Why had I heard that little voice in my heart over something as innocent and familiar as our Mexican joke? I’d never felt bad about it before. There really isn’t any harm in two old girlfriends sharing an inside jest. Or was there?
I had been talking and thinking and meditating on love lately. And I’d begun to feel uneasy instead of peaceful about an area that I had always thought was pretty well covered in my life. What am I misunderstanding about love, Lord?
When I got inside, I called Peaches to let her know I’d made it home. After washing my face, brushing my teeth, and tying my hair in a satin scarf, I made my way to the prayer closet for my last words of the day with the Lord.
I approached the room with some degree of apprehension. I didn’t like feeling as though I was missing out on God’s voice. I fell to my knees and started out with praise; thanking God for His blessings and praising Him for who He is.
Then I got into my groove at my desk and asked the Holy Spirit to take me where I needed to go in the Word. Since God had been teaching me about love, I knew I needed to be there. I just wasn’t exactly sure. I searched the subject index of my NIV Women’s Devotional Bible, and searched through the references pertaining to love for others.
Still beseeching the Spirit for guidance, I went through the indicated pages and read until I felt the Word speak to me. Halfway down the list, I realized that I was still “cold” on the trail. I let my eyes wander to the adjacent page and then I saw it: PREJUDICE. I flipped to Galatians 3:26—29 and read:
You are all Sons of God through faith in Christ Jesus, for all of you who were baptized into Christ have clothed yourselves with Christ. There is neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male nor fe male, for you are all one in Christ Jesus. If you belong to Christ, then you are Abraham’s seed, and heirs according to the promise.
My heart sank as I rolled this scripture over in my mind. I tried to find a loophole—anything to unjustify what the Word said about prejudice. After all, I had good reason to be prejudiced. Mexicans were taking over. Middle Easterners were always bombing people. Asian people made me sick following me around their little dollar stores as if somebody really wanted to steal a cheap plastic yo-yo. The Native Americans were getting a free ride, though they deserved it. And white people. They stole my ancestors, sold them, used our backs to build their own wealth (mind you, never paid us for it), and the list went on and on.
I thought aloud, “It’s so hard for me to love white people.” But as quickly as the confession escaped my mouth, I knew that I could have just as easily substituted the word “black” because I truly had a hard time dealing with my own kind, too. I mentally ran down the list of our issues. Black people could sure enough get on my nerves making us all look bad. Always running on C.P. (Colored People) time like the world revolves around us. Not checking over our kids’ homework, let alone coming to PTA meetings to find out what’s going on up at the “schoolhouse.” Then we want to come up and act crazy when our children get into trouble. Empty promises, half-steppin’, all talk and no action. Kids dressed to kill in Tommy Hilfiger and CK, but they’re on free or reduced lunch. We don’t support our own, we’re always pulling each other down, we don’t vote, and we could sho ‘nuff get “ig-nut” over some money. Leave it to black folks to start a friendly family game of dominos and have it end up with somebody getting shot over fifty cents.
Yes, we could be called a lot of things, but much of it was due to the fact that we are still trying to find ourselves in America. After all, I was in the first generation of African-Americans to have both
It was still early when I got home. My soul was both thirsty and curious. Why had I heard that little voice in my heart over something as innocent and familiar as our Mexican joke? I’d never felt bad about it before. There really isn’t any harm in two old girlfriends sharing an inside jest. Or was there?
I had been talking and thinking and meditating on love lately. And I’d begun to feel uneasy instead of peaceful about an area that I had always thought was pretty well covered in my life. What am I misunderstanding about love, Lord?
When I got inside, I called Peaches to let her know I’d made it home. After washing my face, brushing my teeth, and tying my hair in a satin scarf, I made my way to the prayer closet for my last words of the day with the Lord.
I approached the room with some degree of apprehension. I didn’t like feeling as though I was missing out on God’s voice. I fell to my knees and started out with praise; thanking God for His blessings and praising Him for who He is.
Then I got into my groove at my desk and asked the Holy Spirit to take me where I needed to go in the Word. Since God had been teaching me about love, I knew I needed to be there. I just wasn’t exactly sure. I searched the subject index of my NIV Women’s Devotional Bible, and searched through the references pertaining to love for others.
Still beseeching the Spirit for guidance, I went through the indicated pages and read until I felt the Word speak to me. Halfway down the list, I realized that I was still “cold” on the trail. I let my eyes wander to the adjacent page and then I saw it: PREJUDICE. I flipped to Galatians 3:26—29 and read:
You are all Sons of God through faith in Christ Jesus, for all of you who were baptized into Christ have clothed yourselves with Christ. There is neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male nor fe male, for you are all one in Christ Jesus. If you belong to Christ, then you are Abraham’s seed, and heirs according to the promise.
My heart sank as I rolled this scripture over in my mind. I tried to find a loophole—anything to unjustify what the Word said about prejudice. After all, I had good reason to be prejudiced. Mexicans were taking over. Middle Easterners were always bombing people. Asian people made me sick following me around their little dollar stores as if somebody really wanted to steal a cheap plastic yo-yo. The Native Americans were getting a free ride, though they deserved it. And white people. They stole my ancestors, sold them, used our backs to build their own wealth (mind you, never paid us for it), and the list went on and on.
I thought aloud, “It’s so hard for me to love white people.” But as quickly as the confession escaped my mouth, I knew that I could have just as easily substituted the word “black” because I truly had a hard time dealing with my own kind, too. I mentally ran down the list of our issues. Black people could sure enough get on my nerves making us all look bad. Always running on C.P. (Colored People) time like the world revolves around us. Not checking over our kids’ homework, let alone coming to PTA meetings to find out what’s going on up at the “schoolhouse.” Then we want to come up and act crazy when our children get into trouble. Empty promises, half-steppin’, all talk and no action. Kids dressed to kill in Tommy Hilfiger and CK, but they’re on free or reduced lunch. We don’t support our own, we’re always pulling each other down, we don’t vote, and we could sho ‘nuff get “ig-nut” over some money. Leave it to black folks to start a friendly family game of dominos and have it end up with somebody getting shot over fifty cents.
Yes, we could be called a lot of things, but much of it was due to the fact that we are still trying to find ourselves in America. After all, I was in the first generation of African-Americans to have both
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