Welcome to Sunday. Join us! Please, use this as a space to let the Word speak, and let’s keep our own words small today. Link up with a photo and just a few, brief words of inspiration. Then, grab the Sunday button from the link at the top of the page to post at your place. If it fits into your day, take a minute or two to visit the others who’ve linked up here.
Today, Lisa-Jo’s Five Minute Friday prompt is “Dance.” Now you know I couldn’t pass that up.
I’m sitting on the couch, watching So You Think You Can Dance. This may just be my favorite show of all time. But H doesn’t get it.
Two couples glide across the stage on the television and H asks me, “Now, what is it you like about this again?”
I have to think about it. He’s been asking me this same question about dancing for years. So, this time, I want to get the answer right. I watch the leaping and the lines and the emotion of the dancers and I can’t take my eyes off them.
“I can feel myself doing that,” I say.
“Ohhhhh,” he says. And I think he understands it.
The guy in Chariots of Fire says he feels God’s pleasure when he runs. That’s what I feel when I dance. I’m holding on to hope – dreaming a big dream – that one day I will dance on a stage on Broadway. It might just be a quick shuffle across the back of the stage as an extra on whom some director takes pity one day. But I’m not letting that dream go. Not even in the midst of living other ridiculous dreams.
The dancers on the television stand still. The music is done. I watch them – their rib cages rising and falling as they catch their breath because gliding across the stage as if it’s easy isn’t easy at all. I watch them breathe and realize I’ve been holding my breath the whole time.
“What about you?” I asked the woman in the church’s Fellowship Hall. “What’s your dream?” There are two reasons her answer took me by surprise.
First of all, she didn’t hesitate. I don’t know if she took a breath before she said, “You know, I don’t even know what my dream is.” And that was the second surprise. She didn’t know her dream. Couldn’t name it.
I’ve been on a “Follow Your Dream” kick, and what I remembered in that Fellowship Hall is how elusive our dreams can be. They don’t follow the norm and they don’t fit the status quo. Dreams rock the boat, and so we squash them and point our fingers at them. We use our stern voices and we tell them to go to their room and not to come out until they’re ready to say “I’m sorry” and then we make them vow to sit quietly in the corner. Dreams don’t promise a cushy 401K or health insurance or six figures or even five.
Dreams are scary, and because they scare us, we don’t always get to know them.
When I told God my dream, it wasn’t something that just rolled of my tongue. Oh, I knew there was something in there, but I had never verbalized it. When I said it to God, it was after nearly twenty-four hours of trying to figure out what that dream was. If you’d asked me to tell you my dream before I’d actually shared it with God, I probably would have said something that sounded a lot like that woman in the Fellowship Hall. Because the idea of standing on my two feet with my hands on my hips and daring to think I had a dream worth pursuing scared me, and it seemed like too much work.
Besides, what if God and the rest of the world thought my dream was ridiculous? What if God and the rest of the world think your dream is ridiculous?
Well, for starters, having a ridiculous dream does not make you a ridiculous person. In fact, it puts you in some pretty amazing company. And also? Ridiculous does not scare God.
So, now that we’ve got that out of the way, tell me, what’s your dream? Take your time. Push past the knocking knees and sweaty palms. Don’t answer right away. Mull it over. Talk about it with God. Write it on a napkin. Then, rewrite it. Edit it. Tweak it. Write it in your journal, in ink. Read it out loud. Whisper it if you have to. Let your voice be shaky – it’ll get stronger. It will.
Yesterday I got out of the pool and walked across the concrete. I sat down on one of those reclining lounge chairs and folded my legs – criss cross applesauce. I never used to sit that way in public in a swimsuit. I didn’t like the way it made my thighs look. I leaned forward over my copy of Essence magazine and let the sun fall on my sunblocked shoulders. I never used to lean forward in public in a swimsuit. I didn’t like the way it made my stomach look.
But last week, Emily Wierenga sent me an advance copy of Mom in the Mirror: Body Image, Beauty and Life After Pregnancy. Emily wrote this book, along with Dr. Dena Cabrera. It doesn’t matter if you’ve just had a baby, you’ve never had a baby, you haven’t had a baby in decades, or the thought of having a baby makes you want to run for the hills. Every woman needs to read this book, and maybe a few men, too. This book is untangling all those silly knots in my head that made me think my body isn’t good enough. Mom in the Mirror will be released next spring. (Emily’s other book, Chasing Silhouettes is available now for pre-order!)
If (and I’m describing myself here) you look at your body and shake your head, or deliver unkind words to your reflection when you glimpse it in a department store window, or if you know exactly how much weight you’ve gained or lost since yesterday – and you know that number every day, or if you categorize food as only “good” or “bad”, or if you look at other people and judge them based on their body type, or if you run for miles because you refuse to buy a double-digit dress size, or if you never sit cross-legged or lean forward in a swimsuit, you NEED to read this book. I wish I had the right words, but that’s the best I can do.
Yesterday, I was reading my Essence magazine on a lounge chair next to the pool. I was leaning forward and my legs were crossed. That’s when H said, “I’m getting back in the pool.”
I looked over at him and squinted my eyes against the sun. “I’m going to go in the way you did,” he said. “I’m going to glide across the concrete and walk strong and proud, and then I’m going to walk down the steps into the pool. Just like you. Strong,” he said.
See? This book is making me think straight again.
~~~
Welcome to Sunday. Join us! Please, use this as a space to let the Word speak, and let’s keep our own words small today. Link up with a photo and just a few, brief words of inspiration. Then, grab the Sunday button from the link at the top of the page to post at your place. If it fits into your day, take a minute or two to visit the others who’ve linked up here.
I decided to ride my bike more this summer, and leave the car at home when I can. I haven’t bought gas in weeks.
I see better on two, slow, whirring wheels than I ever could on four.
While I ride, I’m praying for you and your big, amazing, ridiculous dream.
~~~
Linking with Michelle’s fresh, new summertime community.
H has a friend named Casey. Casey and H went to seminary together and, after they both graduated and began the work of being pastors of small churches in the south, Casey and H would talk on the phone or get together to encourage one another, exchange notes, and share helpful resources.
Whenever H talked with Casey, he’d come away smiling, or singing, or walking around with a bounce in his step. I’d ask him how things went and he’d tell me a bit about their conversation, about Casey’s family, or Casey’s congregation. Without fail, as H was recounting his time with Casey, H would say, “Casey says…” and then he’d share some bit of wisdom Casey had dropped into H’s lap.
Over time, whenever H and I needed encouragement, or a new perspective on a particular situation, we’d look at each other and say, “Casey says…” and those two words were often all we needed to keep on keeping on.
Once, Casey said something H and I return to again and again. H and Casey were talking about a big dream one of them had for the future of the church, or their family, or in their personal lives. The size of the dream was daunting and beyond the scope of anything either of them had ever done before. But they couldn’t shake it. It wouldn’t go away and, no matter how scary it seemed, the person dreaming it really wanted to see it happen. So, Casey said, “When it’s big like that – something way bigger than you – there’s a really good chance that dream came from God.”
Big, amazing, ridiculous dreams can get me all freaked out. I start biting my nails, or watching too much television, or gazing with envy at other people living their dream. I tell myself dreams are for other people – creative people, smart people, people good at math or science (or both!), innovative people, patient people, loud people, quiet people, talented people, savvy people, organized people, rich people, young people, old people, well-connected people. People not like me.
At least that’s what I tell myself. You too?
But if that’s true, then what are we supposed to do with all those regular, everyday, bumbling, mistake-prone, misguided, misjudged, belligerent, outcast, timid, and dishevelled people in the bible God used to do really spectacular things?
I know, right?
So, what if that big, amazing, ridiculous dream you’ve been dreaming came to you from God? What if He wants to make it come true? What if He’s waiting for you to let Him take that dream and make it real? And what if – when your dream comes true – people see it and look right past you to God? What if you don’t get a standing ovation, or a certificate of award, or the corner office, or one hundred comments, or sixty-seven Facebook likes, or a gift card to Target? What if your dream comes true and it points people right past you and straight to God?
~~~
With Jennifer…
“Hey,” H said to me sometime last week. “I was looking at your blog the other day.”
I had myself distracted with some task I don’t remember right now, but I remember I was glad to be distracted. By now, you probably know how much I love H. You probably get that he’s my biggest cheerleader. What you may not know is that H does not like to read and that he hardly ever reads my blog. Case in point: Just the other day he asked me, “You changed your blog address?” I love that man.
But when he said he’d been poking around here at Jumping Tandem, I wasn’t quite sure what to expect.
“You know that thing you do on Sundays?” he was saying, and I had no idea where the conversation was headed.
“Yeah,” I said. “The Sunday Community. It’s a link-up.”
“A link-up?”
I let those words hang in the air.
“Well,” he said. “When I saw that, I thought it was like Electronic Church.” He let his words hang in the air.
While our words hung up there above our heads, I thought about you and the way you gather here on Sunday. I thought about the way there always seems to be a theme – a special message God wants us to hear, together. I thought about how I click through the links and find you in the comments over at one another’s spots. You cheer each other on. You pray for each other and encourage each other. You connect in ways that are meaningful and significant and life-changing. You love each other well.
Like church.
“It’s cool,” H said. “Really cool.”
It made me smile. Because it IS really cool. Thanks to those of you who link up. Thanks to those who simply read the posts. Thanks to those of you who comment and share the love.
It’s a small thing. And a really big deal.
~~~
With Michelle.
Welcome to Sunday. Join us! Please, use this as a space to let the Word speak, and let’s keep our own words small today. Link up with a photo and just a few, brief words of inspiration. Then, grab the Sunday button from the link at the top of the page to post at your place. If it fits into your day, take a minute or two to visit the others who’ve linked up here.
Maybe you’re like me, and you appreciate a quiet spot from time to time. If so, here are some more quiet places for your weekend:
Still Saturday, at Sandra’s
Graceful Summer, at Michelle’s
Preparation Day, at Lyla’s
Sunday Scripture, at (in)courage
Popo is the second from the right. Next to him (in the red bowtie) is Dr. Garfield Johnson, the doctor who delivered both of my children.
H’s father was a surgeon. He was one of the very first black surgeons to practice medicine in Pontiac, Michigan. If you were to meet a black person born in Pontiac from 1950 to 1970, my father-in-law probably delivered them into this world. He delivered most of Pontiac. When he passed away ten years ago, the steady stream of people who came to pay their respects went on for hours. Everyone had a story of how Dr. Riggs had helped make them well, or whole, or confident, or proud. Because in the black community – especially back then – being a doctor was about more than prescribing medicine and ordering tests.
My father-in-law worked hard. He graduated high school at the age of 16, undergrad at 20, and med school at 24. He served as a medic with the Tuskegee Airmen. And he chose to practice medicine in Pontiac, Michigan. He set up shop on a corner in town and he and his wife started to grow a family in a modest house nearby.
Eventually, H’s father and mother had saved enough money to buy some property and build a house. But real estate agents weren’t selling property to black people back in those days. So, a Jewish friend of the family bought the seven acre plot of land for my father-in-law, and my father-in-law bought it from him.
After the house was built, the KKK burned a cross in the front yard. I guess they weren’t convincing enough because my father-in-law didn’t flinch. He kept on growing his family, growing his practice, serving the community, and recruiting more black doctors to Pontiac, to serve the patients the white doctors didn’t want.
He’s quite a legend.
When H and I went back to Michigan last weekend, our trip coincided with a program sponsored by St. Joseph Mercy-Oakland Hospital. The program, Pioneer African American Doctors in Pontiac, honored Dr. Riggs and the 13 other doctors of color who stood their ground as trailblazers in establishing medical practices in Pontiac, in a part of town they called The Corner.
At the program, I sat in the front row with H, his mom, and his brother. The room was rich with history and pride and community and the telling of stories that made us say “Amen!” out loud – right there in the hospital.
I wouldn’t be where I am today without people like Dr. Riggs – we call him Popo. Popo was strong and he was wise about the importance of community. He was serious about giving back and about making the world a safe place for everyone.
I don’t know what I would have done if the KKK had burned a cross in my front yard when I had three young children sleeping inside. I can’t even imagine what that’s like. And part of the reason I can’t imagine it is because Popo actually lived it.
Who are the pioneers in your life?
~~~
In other news…
Did you see Michelle’s new writing community? You should check it out.
