These aren’t fun when the answers include numbers, for example I don’t know if your hometown high school was four miles from your house or if it was three, so you’re not correcting a number in any of these.
You tell me in the comments which are the two non-truths:
1. Rachelle Ferrell is my favorite singer of all time.
2. My astrological sign is the cross of Christ. 😏 #Oversaved
3. Reese was born prematurely by six weeks.
4. My dream car in my young adult years was a Bavarian Motor Works 535i. A black one. 😮💨
5. I turned age 17 two months before graduating from high school.
6. Reese’s name was supposed to be spelled R-e-e-c-e, but I was on magnesium sulfate at the time her birth certificate was completed (if you know anything about it, this should help you out with number 3.)
7. Before my mom’s doctor knew she was pregnant with me, her doctor told her I was a tumor. 😩
8. When my husband wrote his first book, I promoted it on social media like crazy. ICYMI, check out my favorite of the vids here. 👨🏻🦱
9. I abhor musicals. Can’t stand the sight or sound of them. My least favorite is The Wiz. Get the musical genius of Charlie Smalls and Quincy Jones outta here.
She’s every bit a Gen Alpha teen – constantly telling me about which clothing items do and don’t match her “aesthetic” while simultaneously taking pieces from the wardrobe of her Gen X Momma.
She defies the conventional beauty standard of wearing her hair long – either straight or curly – and chopped it off in the summer of 2023. A few weeks later, she began going to a barber and had him cut it even shorter.
Yesterday she told me that the boys in Texas are cute and that they don’t smell. (Colorado, are your boys truly made of frogs and snails and puppy dog tails? #QTNA)
She wants a seafood boil for dinner because she’s boughie. Thank my Christ we’re celebrating her in Dallas where crab legs and Gulf shrimp are bigger, fresher, and cheaper than in our landlocked state of Colorado.
She’s quirky and contemplative and funny and sweet.
She is a model of what it is to show empathy for her fellow humans.
She loves the Lord and pursues Him with her whole heart.
I keep seeing posts like this on social media: “Remember the people who checked on you and remember the ones who didn’t.“
The implication is that the people who did check actually care about you, and the ones who didn’t – don’t.
May I offer a different perspective?
The truth could be that the ones who reached out don’t really care about you, they’re just nosey.
And the ones who didn’t check do care, but are dealing with a series of crises (life be life-ing out here.)
I hadn’t spoken with a mentor of mine in many, many months. I thought nothing of it because, as previously discussed, life happens. I later found out that she had cancer, and only because she posted a video of herself on social media ringing the bell to mark the milestone indicating the completion of radiation and chemotherapy treatment.
One of my dearest friend’s son passed away. During his illness, several of us reached out to her many times with words of encouragement and prayers of support, but received no response. The grief had her down for the count.
Can you imagine walking in either of their shoes, walking, maybe even crawling from day to day, with only enough energy to survive, then have someone say of you, “you didn’t check on me”?
The reason for the silence of those you deem should be vocal may not be as extreme as a physical malady or sudden loss. They could be struggling with myriad other matters: being defeated at their work, fighting to save their child, a marriage on the brink of divorce…they may be so overwhelmed that they have no margin in their lives in this season.
Or they could not be struggling at all. It just slipped their mind to engage with you, and then they looked up and three months had gone by.
Either way, we are nuanced, complex people.
In light of this, we should be kind.
We should be gracious.
We should be forgiving.
In the same way you are a recipient of these gifts, you must go bearing these gifts to others.
Ephesians 4:32 says, “Be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, as God in Christ forgave you.” (emphasis mine.)
Step 1: pick ripe avocados. They should be firm but give a bit under just a bit of pressure. Another test for ripeness: pop that stem cap off the top of the fruit. If it comes off easily and the flesh is green – I prefer a color closer to yellow – you’re good to go. I have four medium-sized avocados here.
Step 2: and quite possibly the most important step: season your avocados with salt before you begin to chop your onions and such. This way, that NaCl has a chance to dissolve by the time your remaining ingredients are ready to be mixed in. You could add salt at the end, but then you have to wait for the salt to fully dissolve. And ain’t nobody got time for that. Double dip on those minutes spent chopping and have your salt already doing its thang.
Step 3: add freshly ground black pepper. You could use the pre-ground stuff, but if you do, this begs the question: why don’t you like your life? As for how much, use how ever much will please your people. We are all pretty hot around my way, so no need to be it and eat it, ya know? Everything in moderation. I just use a generous sprinkling.
Next, finely chop (white or red or yellow) onions and cilantro, about 1/3 of a cup each and set aside in separate bowls. Press three good sized garlic cloves through a garlic press and set those aside. Freshly squeeze about two tablespoons of lemon (not lime – trust me) juice.
Now that your salt has dissolved on your avocados (a-HA!), mash them, but stop mashing just before your desired mashedness level at serving. They’ll continue to break down as you continue to stir, and the goal is for the dip (or side dish, whatever suits your fancy) (my goodness that sounded old) to be the right consistency after you’re done adding your ingredients. We like ours between chunky and smooth. Some people like theirs like puréed baby food, but whatevs. Let them enjoy the wrong way to eat guacamole. 🤷🏽♀️
Step I lost count: mix in your ingredients with a large spoon. I start with about half the onions and cilantro, 3/4 of the pressed garlic, and maybe a tablespoon of the lemon juice. Be sure to break up that hunk of garlic in the middle. 😬
Add a lil’ more of this and a pinch more of that and additional salt and pepper to your desired taste. Then enjoy the finished product…
…with tortilla chips, or along side some slices of smoked brilliance (my phone auto-corrected “brisket” to “brilliance”, which surely applies here) that your daddy made, with a dollop of sour cream. Muy deliciosa.
When you make yours, report back and tell me what you think!
Pray. If you utter unto the Lord thy God “and then they gon’ have the nerve to…”, you are not ready to type. While you are free to say that to Christ because 🎤 He can HANdle ET! 🎼 you are not free to write it. Pray until such phrases are withheld from your petition to Him, then you are in the right frame of mind to talk to others.
Type your concerns – and this part is paramount – leaving the “To” line blank – then go to bed.
Reread it the next day, after what was hopefully a good night’s rest (also referred to as the cooling-off period.) Remove all the “first of all”s and “What you NOT gon’ do”s and “So let me get this straight”s. Generally, remove any word typed in all caps because ideally you have calmed down at this juncture and have determined that yelling is not necessary.
Then, without giving them any history, have a trusted friend who is not afraid to dress you down or maybe even a law enforcement officer read your communiqué. If after reading your note without a briefing, they ask you, “Whoa, fam, what did they do, slap ya kid?!”, then begin again at step 2 – you’re not ready. If they believe it is simply a random text written to communicate your point, and they ask, “OK, why am I reading this?”, continue to step 6.
Use every word you need, and none of the words you do not need (I got that from my husband’s genius brain. If you have ever read anything he has written, you are keenly aware that Dude is nice on the keyboard.)
Include facts; exclude feelings. Emotions are best communicated in person where they are less likely to be misinterpreted.
Have Officer Sharon reread your un-angry e-mail again. If it meets her approval, pray over it, the receiver, and you, and if you have a peace about it the circumstances that deemed the letter necessary still exist, by all means, hit ‘Send’.
If this post brought to mind someone who needs this exact kind of advice (you know they need it!), share this with them with this emoji 😳 and then this one 👀 and do not type “lol” after it. Just let the conviction hang out there, and possibly prepare yourself for a strongly worded e-mail from them. 😏
“‘A Script For The Fall’ is the name of a blog post I’m writing and publishing today.”
“Cheri, write that and send me that today.”
Todaaaay?!
OK, y’all, so. You need some background. I was listening to Coffee With Chrystal this morning; it’s a live broadcast (I don’t know why but I feel antique using the word ‘broadcast’) she produces and in this one, she talked about achieving big goals through baby steps and I learned so much.
When she uttered those words – have a script for the fall – they struck me, so as the aforementioned comment I typed on the thread rolled up into her view, she called me out in front of God and all his mighty angels, and her facial expression here suggests she didn’t believe I was gonna get it done. 😏 Lips pursed and everythang. Hmph.
Anyway. Back to the baby steps. One of the strategies Chrystal listed was having a script for the fall. My brain was half awake (she hosts these convos at O-dark:30 in the morntink) so I panicked and thought, “Fall is over; what about a script for Winter?! That’s the hardest time of year for me. Winter is when I really need to – oh, she means like when I fall down.”
When the saints of old thanked God, I now understand what they meant when they said, “Thank you for being clothed in my right mind.” Once the fog lifted, I honed in on what she was communicating.
I don’t know about y’all, but when I want to start something new, I get excited about. I can see myself in the future and Kurt Carr says and I look better. 🎙 I have done the work in the lab and have written the script that I need to be successful with this new endeavor. It takes twenty or five or ten steps and I have them all outlined with multiple bullet-pointed levels in grand detail.
And that’s good. That’s what I’m supposed to do.
But I don’t have a script for when I fall. When I get distracted. When I get bored with the process (hello, somebody!) and shift my attention from the current goal to a loftier or more exciting one. I am ill-prepared when the unexpected happens. The unexpected happens and will keep happening; I don’t know why I keep being surprised by it, like when my daughter has her umpteenth episode of Cyclic Vomiting Syndrome (Google it; she had one last weekend and as usual, my household came to a halt).
The problem isn’t the fall or the distraction or the boredom or the illness. The problem is that I don’t have a plan to get back on track when they do occur. And that’s what it means to have a script for the fall.
So going forward, at the beginning of my quests, I need to already have an internal or written dialogue, sticky notes, BFF reminder, pigeon with a note tied to it’s claw, something in place to get me back on track when I fall. Because it’s gonna happen, you know? And I don’t know about yours, but my Bible told me that in this world I would have trouble.
2020 has been trouble in this literal world, has it not?
So since we know there will be diversions on our journey, let’s set ourselves up for success by having a plan to stay successful.
And to everybody ob her Live who needs further convincing that Chrystal taught spin class once upon a time, in my Memories on Facebook today, this popped up. I was headed to her class at something crazy like, 4 o’clock in the morning. I was so skinny. Bless it.
It’s as though Life gets bored with low-action circumstances so to spice things up, it bets against us. It assumes it knows which cards we’re holding – or more importantly, which cards we’re not holding – but all its smack-talking comes to an abrupt halt when either you or your patna (partner) throw down that Two of Spades which cuts its King of Clubs.
You count the books and see that your team collectively has seven books and one of you is the fool that slaps the remaining highest Spade onto her oily forehead 👏🏾 face 👏🏾 up, rubbing your imminent victory and your opponents’ imminent defeat in its face.
Take that, Life. 😆
My sweet girl gets angsty about stuff. She gets that from her momma. It can be the ittiest Math equation or which dress to wear or deciding between two-strand twists and a curly afro, but in these moments, in her mind, the Earth is about to fall off its axis.
My daughter came to me with an anxiety-initiating problem and she expected me to solve it. And though I wanted to, to be empathetic and sugary and to gas her up like I usually do, I simply couldn’t. I didn’t have it in me. It was three hours ‘til bedtime and I was dealt very bad cards. My hand was full of low Diamonds and middle-of-the-pack Hearts. Quite frankly, I didn’t even feel like playing anymore. “You gotta stop being so angsty about stuff!” I encouragedadmonished semi-yelled. And she stood there with the tears pouring down her precious baby-girl face that I genuinely believed would dehydrate her if I didn’t something quickly.
And Life looked at me with that smirk. 😏
What am I supposed to do, Jesus? I’m empty.
So I did the only thing I knew to do.
I pulled back my bedding so she could join me under the covers, and I whipped out the Big Joka – I Face-timed Nanna.
Reese didn’t want to at first. That’s part of the angst; you know you need help but are some combination of ashamed and embarrassed and terrified to ask for it. I let the phone keep ringing even though my girly-girl had buried her head under the covers and was scooting ever closer to the foot of my bed.
Momma picked up.
“Cheri!”
“Hey, Momma!”
“How are you doing, my precious daughter?”
I skipped the pleasantries because I knew I could:
“Momma, would you tell Reese that it’s going to be OK?”
“Reese. My darling grandgirl. It’s gonna be OK, Baby.”
I asked Mom if I could post this. She answered, “Sure. It looks like I’m talking in cursive.” 😆
She picked up where I left off. She had an excellent hand. My mother told my daughter how precious she is. She told her how she has always been impressed with the mature decisions she makes. Nanna told my first-born to Earth that she makes her laugh, that she’s such a great care-giver to her little cousin, and how much fun they have together when they play in her wigs.
*slaps last highest Spade onto oily forehead*
It worked. It always does. My mom is just outstanding. I like the way I feel after I talk to her. She makes me feel good, and in these COVID days and nights, I hadn’t felt that way in a very long time, but just a lil’ talk with Jesus and my Momma made it right.
That’s all, y’all. Just shouting out my mom.
In what ways has your mom made you feel good? Let me know in the comments!
A few thangs: As you go about the Father’s business today, be sure to include urgent and believing prayer for your under-shepherd. That man has toiled for at least a week about how to guide a room full of people who love him, hate him, or are indifferent toward him. #LetHimEnjoyHisJob #ItsLiterallyInTheBible #Hebrews13
If your pastor has not shied away from teaching you everything that saith the Lord, remember EVERY sermon he has preached over the years when you’re critiquing this one. We know if every week we heard “in the Greek…” 50-lem times, or if every sermon included every nuance of every word in every Bible verse, you’d be complaining “church is too looong”. #NoLie #ISatThruASermonWhereThePastorPreachedOnTheWordHIM #ItWasAwesome #PastorALPattersonJr (Sidebar: if you’re not committed to any church, are you qualified to critique at all?)
If, after Sunday’s sermon, ain’t NOBODY mad at your pastor — pro/anti-abortionists, pro/anti-immigrants, pro/anti-homosexuality types, Tupac vs. Biggie types — if ain’t NOBODY mad and ready to make him a victim of cancel culture, he didn’t do it right. In the words of the great Dr. Fran Blomberg, “When truth hits the fan, a little of it gets on everybody.”
You will not change Jesus.
You will not change Him.
Jesus will change you.
Your entire being should be wrecked after an encounter with Him. He and His word should disrupt your way of life, to say the very least.
I wish I were kidding but I am not. The little guy told the big guy,
“…and the bulb goes right into the socket right there.”
“Oh, I see. Like this?”
“Yes.”
Historical and cultural context on how simple this should be: my husband has replaced the bulbs in that thing before. This is to be expected as bulbs burn out. That’s what they do.
Don’t let anybody tell you different, Beloved.
But I have a coupla problems here.
The first is that it took two fully-grown men to get it done who chose this trade and training and presumably carry this job out on a semi-regular basis.
The second is that when my husband replaced these same bulbs before (I didn’t even know he had done it – he just saw they were out, bought new ones, replaced them lickety-split, and I was back in business without ever even knowing I was out of business. This is our routine, by the way), but he had not chosen this trade and training to be a Sears technician, but is in fact, a preacher and pastor called by the Most High God.
There actually is a third problem here and though it is written as third, it is the primary one.
The unit is less than three years old and three bulbs of the three-lightbulb housing (if you’re counting, that = all of them), radiation-spilling (more on that later) fast food heater blew out in that amount of time. Sheesh. And my 46-year-old eyes need all the light they can get whilst I’m cooking, including the light that so shines before men. So to have nothing illuming my work on the stove was difficult.
Add to that, the door handle was broken – hence the potential radiation leak – and not through any fault of our own. The little technician clearly and plainly told me, “It’s the heat from your stove. It disintegrates the bop-dee-bops (that’s the industry term, you see) and it just wears down. You’re gonna have to replace this door again. 😐
Bro.
We have what Sears refers to as a “Protection Agreement”, so the repairs were covered. Yay. But upon receiving my phone call in the middle of a work day updating him on all these foolishnesses, you can imagine my husband’s annoyance level was pret-ty high.
“Wait; what?”
“Yep.”
“There are two men there, and one of them does not know how to screw in a bulb?!”
“Yup.”
“Is he a Sears employee?!”
“Actually, Sears has contracted this repair to XYZ Appliance Repair.”
“I’m sorry. I asked the wrong question. Do both men work in this trade, and presumably have been trained to do so?!”
“Mm-hm. That’s what I’m gonna write in my blog post, anyway.”
He sighed. “…You got your Roscoe?”
“On my person.”
“OK. Call me if anything pops off.”
👏🏾 And 👏🏾then.
The door they sent to replace the broken one was used.
Bless it.
Sears sent me a used door, y’all, and expected me to be happy about it.
I did not meet their expectations.
The little tech called this issue in to his boss who ran the numbers and so generously decided that since a new door would cost more than just replacing the whole component, they would do that instead.
After replacing three out of three lightbulb housings, three bulbs, and a door, we netted a new microwave. Thank ya, God. 🙌🏾
I don’t know how to wrap this one up in a neat little bow. Just telling you what happened. 🤷🏾♀️
When the report is good, we lead with it. Hemming and hawing is out of place here. Straight out of the gate the doctor exclaims, “Congratulations!” or the company confirms, “You‘re hired!” or, after a frenzied search I bellow, “I found my size – and it has pockets!” No feather-filled blanket of kind words needs to be laid down to soften the landing of pleasant news. That good message is the evidence of things hoped for so even laid bare, it is well received.
I hastily clicked on the bold font of the unread incoming email. And when I did – not with a plan to read it, but to see how very unnecessarily long the first paragraph was to tell me “Yes!” – I immediately knew. My head and my heart had grown familiar with the shape of the words that rejected me. Maturity has caused a callus to form, but I have not been able to completely heal upon my learning that “other candidates were better suited”, or to find out “(only) eleven people read your blog,” or being asked, “close the window; it’s cold in here!” Also, “it’s just a chemical pregnancy” – these are all painful phrases that to varying degrees have been indelibly woven into the fabric of my life in days recent or decades past.
But at this age, I gotta ask myself some hard questions and be prepared to hear some equally hard answers. Wanting a child or a job or a bedroom that’s set at an optimal 65° for nighttime sleep is one thing, but my hope being anchored in those things is another matter entirely. I have to realize that all of these desires are temporal and finite. None of them fills the void that aches for something that lasts; something that is unconditional; something – nay, someone, who completely satisfies.
I saw this graphic on Instagram recently:
This wrecked me. The writer was kind to use the word “esteem” but in my life, that word is code for “idolize”. As much as I know about God and how he is jealous for my affection, my propensity to be an idol factory remains unchanged. I still find myself seeking satisfaction in stuff, people, and carbs. And every single time, the stuff is not relational, the people are broken, and the carbohydrates leave me with regret of calories gone by.
But God.
One of the terms in this two-word phrase is powerful beyond human comprehension. The word “but” tells us that the statement previously made can be stricken because of the words about to come, and in this case, that word is “God”. He knows we are this way. He knows that we are prone to wander – Lord, I feel it! He is not surprised when I go astray; he is not caught off guard when I sin; he is not any less God when I hold these idols in high esteem over Him.
A brilliant pastor said, “God causes lasting change through catastrophe or revival. And sometimes, He uses both.” Ah, yes. To show me what my idols are and how to remove them, why wouldn’t He combine a bit of the bitter with the sweet? For me, it’s an Ebenezer – a stone of remembrance. I need a reminder not only of how low I sunk, but that when I was alone at my absolute lowest in that pit bathing in the filthy cycle of my sin and guilt and shame and sin and guilt and shame, the grace of God had to sink lower than me to scoop me up and pull me out of it. He knows what’s at the end of my having idols and He knows that it’s disastrous. But instead of doling out to me justice, He washes me clean with His finished work on the cross, then showers me with abundant mercy.
The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning. His mercies are new every morning. And I lean into that mercy and shout out and thank Him for his grace. And in the quiet – because the removal of idols reveals that they clang and have clamor built into them – I can finally see who He is and how much He loves me.
Cheri Washington 