When Prayer is Bad - Part II (a)

Growing up in church, I was taught very clearly how I was to interact with God.  I was to:

1.  pray
2.  pray every day
3.  pray as long as possible

And while all of this is true, somehow I missed the truth in it in my attempt to do it.

I tried to pray every day.  I failed miserably cause I could only manage to do it a few to many times a week, never or rarely daily.  I beat myself up over this.  Why couldn't I be faithful? Consistent? What was wrong with me?

This went on for several years, until I realized that my perspective was all wrong:  I was looking at prayer as an item to check off my Christian To Do List.  I knew that it had to be more than that, and I wanted it to feel that way.  So I prayed a simple prayer:  "God, if I miss a day of prayer, can you just help me to feel the loss of not interacting with You, versus the guilt from not interacting with You?"

A few months later, while walking to the water cooler at work, I blurted out, "God, I miss you.  I haven't prayed in two days!"  I stopped in my tracks, remembering my request.  It had happened.  My heart had changed.  Now, prayer felt more like a relational interaction than a mandatory task to be completed.

I came to see prayer as time I got to be with the Creator; the Creator's time to be with me.  Feeling that has made all the difference over the years, whether I pray every day, miss a day (or a few), or pray only for five minutes.

8 Reasons I Love ABC's Black-ish

I'll admit it: I was underwhelmed with the trailer for ABC's Black-ish.  However, I caught the premiere, and I've been hooked ever since.

Here are 8 Reasons Why I Love ABC's Black-ish

1.  It makes us look at race and culture.  In a country that asks us to be color blind, as its problems with race simultaneously corrode her, we need shows that make us look at ourselves.  We need mediums that explore relevant topics, loosen us up, and cause of to laugh,  even if it's at our own expense. Comedy was and will always continue to be one of the easiest ways to access people's hearts.

2.  Anthony Anderson.  He made his splash on the national stage in "Law & Order," but his comedic talent is his greatest strength.  He shines as "Andre 'Dre' Johnson," an upwardly mobile young husband and father who works hard to navigate his identity as a black man plus the cultural identities of his wife and kids.  He's got the "what I say goes" vibe of Dr. Cliff Huxtable (is it okay to say that these days??), mixed with the comedic brashness of Damon Wayans in "My Wife and Kids." Every week, we get to see the big-hearted Dre push his family into some new idea, watch the havoc that ensues, and then see him learn from his mistakes.

3.  It's always good to see black people on TV.  Especially when they aren't robbing anyone.  Or doing drugs.  Or getting killed.  (I could go on, but you get the point.)

4.  Miles Brown.  This kid's acting is just as adorable as his pretty little face.  

5.  Marsai Martin.  Her comedic talents are superb.  She plays the feisty, intellectual twin, and her glasses remind me of me when I was a kid, only I wasn't nearly as cute.

6.  The writing.  Creator Kenya Barris hits the nail on the head each week as he explores some of the situations African Americans experience and struggle with on a daily basis.  No, it's not exhaustive, and no, it's not representative of everyone's individual experiences, but what piece of art is?  The show explores what it can in its allotted time (30 minutes), within its chosen format (comedy).  

7.  Amidst the grand jury verdicts, protests, and feelings of despair and hopelessness, it's good to be able to have a good laugh and feel like I'm still engaged with what's happening around me.

8.  It's funny.  Really funny.  Not funny-ish.

Presidential Matters

Until now, I have remained silent about how the President and his family have been treated by the Republican Party since his historic election, but I must address the recent disrespectful remarks made by a GOP staffer about Obama's two daughters.  If you haven't read it, you can read it here.

I won't muddy the water by hypothesizing the source of this disrespect, so I will simply comment on a few lines:

1)  "Try showing a little class."  To suggest that the President's daughters don't have class because they showed visible disinterest in a White House tradition that carries no weight in the scheme of anything is unmerited and atrociously condescending.

2) "At least respect the part you play." What teenager (or adult for that matter) hasn't been caught rolling their eyes or crossing their arms when being forced to do something they really didn't want to do?  But to suggest that this one moment is representative of the level of respect that they have for what it means to be the first daughters is unfair and hyper-critical.  These young ladies show respect every time they put on a dress that they don't want to because they have to attend some national or international event, every time they smile when they don't want to cause they know that a camera is on, every time they are nice to people even when they are mistreated (cause they know that people are waiting to catch them do one negative thing...), and every moment that they have to share their private family moments with the White House photographer.  So I ain't trippin over some eyes rollin over some White House turkey pardon. (Especially when our country is bleeding due to the unnecessary loss of lives of young black men across the nation as a result of "policing.")

3) "Then again your mother and father don't respect their positions very much, or the nation for that matter..."  Say what?!  Did the communications director for Rep. Stephen Fincher,  a Republican from Tennessee) just say that the President of the United States respects neither the position nor the nation?  Did a woman whose job it is to be diplomatic, politically correct, and non-controversial just show complete disrespect towards not just President Obama, but the Office of the President, plus his teenage daughters?  And did she do this when the President has clearly and repeatedly said that his daughters are to be left out of all public critique and criticism?  

Did she just do that?  And with a tone that was dripping with sarcasm and disdain?  Doesn't her post constitute a thoughtful, deliberate, defiant act against the President, which is the ultimate sign of disrespect?

I'm sorry, but when did it become okay to treat the President like this?  To talk about the President like this?  For decades, it is customary and expected that elected officials (and their staff) show respect to the President because it's synonymous with showing respect to the Office of the President.  That's why you see members of the party that is not in office standing and smiling begrudgingly whenever the current President gives the annual State of the Union address.  They don't have to agree with anything that is being said, but they do have to stand, smile and applaud, and it's always obvious to anyone watching that they are doing it out of respect for the Office, and not because they support what's happening—perhaps similarly to how Sasha and Malia stood and looked?

4)  "Dress like you deserve respect, not a spot at a bar."  Um, okay.  So young ladies who dress like most teenage girls in America (and perhaps a little bit more conservatively) don't deserve respect? Okay, so since they don't deserve respect like the girls who wear ankle-length skirts, do they also deserve to be raped?  Because if we read into what this staffer is really saying, the Obama girls are classless teenage girls who don't deserve respect and should be sitting at a bar, obviously waiting to be disrespected by some "low" or "no" class men.  WTH?  Maybe this staffer was confusing these first daughters with two others?

There's more that I can say, but I won't cause my blood pressure is risin and I don't wanna give her post too much more time and thought.  So in conclusion I will say this:

This GOP staffer communicates for a living.  She crafted the tone, words, and images purposefully and skillfully.  I am tempted to call her and her post classless, but that word is just too distasteful and... classless.

NOW is the Time

"The richest place in the world," he said, "is the graveyard." As a teenager, I was captivated by this man and his message.  His words attached to something deep inside of me, catapulting me to where I am today.  Dr. Myles Munroe's central message of the importance of fulfilling your God-given purpose planted seeds not just in me, but in millions around the globe.  

I aspire to be like him:  a woman who knows her purpose, pursues it, and helps others do the same.  And I aspire to leave this earth the same way that he did:  on my way to do what I was created to do.

Rest in His Presence, Dr. Munroe, knowing that you fulfilled your God-given purpose.

Integrity Sucks

Yeah, I said it.  Integrity sucks because you can't just do what you want to do.  You can't just do what serves you in the moment.  You have to be subject to someone or something:  the truth, God, your conscience...

A few weeks ago, I was walking back to my car, which was parked on Arizona Avenue in Santa Monica, CA.  (Now, I have parked my car in this area two times a week for the last year.)  As I got closer to my car, I noticed a white piece of paper stuck under my windshield wiper.  "It can't be a ticket," I thought.  "I'm not parked illegally."  But yes, it was a ticket, and yes, I was parked illegally.   The sign above my car clearly read, "Permit required." "What?!"  For months I had parked a few car lanes from this spot, and there was no sign there.  

So here I am, holding a $62 ticket in my hand, and I am enraged.  The guy on the balcony above me yelled out, "Contest it!  Tell them there wasn't a sign there."  And for a few minutes, I think about doing it.  I am on a tight budget, and $62 is a lot of money to pay because I didn't see a sign.  But, I feel a pull on the inside of me to live with integrity and decide to not contest it.  It takes me nearly two weeks, however, before I go online to pay it cause the thought of giving the city of Santa Monica $62 for an honest mistake feels incredulous and kind of unjust (If I dare use the word "justice" to describe a matter so trivial.) But I pay it, begrudgingly.

The next week I head into the 99cent store by my house to pick up a few items.  I'm at the checkout, and my items are being rung up, but I tell the cashier that I will be right back and quickly run to the next aisle to grab some gum.  I come back, she gives me the total, and I pay with my debit card.  I'm turning to walk away when she asks whose gum it is that she's about to ring up.  I say "Mine."  She looks a little annoyed and instead of ringing it up, hands it to me.  I'm walking towards the door and am like, "Did she just GIVE me that gum, without ringing it up?  Well.. it must be okay, since she did it and she works here."  But as I get closer to the door, I realize that taking it would be stealing, even if she did hand it to me.  So, I take the gum out of my bag and stick it on a boxes of Pringles stacked next to the exit.

Why do I share these two stories?  Because sometimes, integrity sucks.  It is inconvenient.  You don't get what you want.  You have to take the long route when you're in a rush.  You have to pay money that you don't really have.  But what makes it worth it is knowing that God sees you, and knowing that you are being trained to be trustworthy in any situation-whether people are watching or not.

Body Aches

My body aches.

My body aches, my head hurts, & my heart cries 'cause I can't process it all:

Nonsensical killings.
Police brutality.
White fear being unleashed on black bodies. legally. lawfully. immorally.
unchecked.  unseen by news outlets.
invisible crimes perpetrated on invisible lives.

Bloated bellies atop Mountains being painted red from the blood of beheaded boys and girls.

It's easier to ignore, I know, than to bother to read the lengthy atrocious accounts.  It's easier to open up People Magazine to see what North West is wearing than to look at the little black girl in Missouri who is terrified by the armed policeman outside her apartment.  It's easier to laugh at a Robin Williams' movie and focus on the torture of one individual than that of thousands.

I know.  I get it.  You don't want your body to ache, your head to hurt, or your heart to cry.

Spread the Love Blog Tour: My Writing Process

what are you working on?

What am I working on?  What am I not working on?  At the top of the year, this prodigal writer returned to the blog that she had forsaken because she took a sabbatical to care for her soul.  It worked.  I'm back.  So I'm always working on this blog—thinking of what I want to say.  Also, I'm working on some essays, including one about African American women and the U.S. feminist movement, PLUS a sketch comedy piece.  My most precious project, a partial book draft tentatively titled "Young, Christian and Black," sits on my  bookshelf, collecting dust, waiting for the day when I feel it's right to return to it.

how does your work differ from others of your genre?

I tend to write spiritually-infused social commentaries on what's happening in the news, pop culture, and my life.  A book lovin', cross-carryin', Jesus followin', African American woman living as an entrepreneur-artist in arguably the most self-absorbed city in the world (L.A.), I tend to write cultural critiques, that are (hopefully) inspiring as well as challenging. I speak from a place of honesty and vulnerability.  Sometimes, I say things that will get me blacklisted, and I'm afraid, but I say them anyway.  

why do you write/create what you do?

I write because i have to.  It's how I make sense of the world, and my life.  I write because it unclogs me.  I write because in 2006 a voice told me to write, and pursuing life as a professional writer has been one of the most life-giving endeavors I've ever pursued.  I write because our world needs more voices that make us look within.

how does your writing/creative process work?

All of my work stems from ideas.  Some ideas hit like quick flashes of lightning; others are like spring showers that speak to me for weeks.  I do my best to honor these ideas.  I record them everywhere—in

voice memos  notebooks, journals, scraps of paper.  Then, I let them stew (for hours, days, months), and finally I sit down at my laptop to let them loose!  Some ideas are conveyed quickly, in a blog post that takes an hour to write.  Others take a few sittings and require more refined thinking and a little Internet research. Others take either weeks, or maybe years to flesh out because I'm still trying to figure out 1) exactly what I want to say,  2) the best way to communicate it to the reader, and 3) the right words to use.  

A recovering perfectionist, sometimes I spend minutes scouring dictionary.com for the perfect word to complete a sentence.   Other times, I let it slide, telling myself that putting something out now is much better than waiting a few days until I get more time, because that day may never come.

When I finish writing a piece, a feeling of satisfaction and peace envelopes me.  There is a sense that my gift to the reader is also a gift to myself.

meet a few of my blogging buddies…

I know AmberAwosanya through church.  She's getting her MFA in writing.   Her blog, FromUnderTheNet is where she posts first drafts of short non-fiction bits she is working on from the experiences of her and her interracial family and their life in Uganda.

I met SamanthaButler when she was a student at UCLA.  She's a teacher and writer. Her work consists of short stories, executed writing exercises, poems and life stories: LeeParkerWritings  

Lastly, I'd like to give a HUGE shout out to Grace Sandra, the woman who tagged me in the #ShareTheLove blog tour.  We were in a leadership development cohort when we worked for InterVarsity Christian Fellowship USA.  She is one of the most vulnerable bloggers I know. Here is what she says about how her writing differs from that of other writers:  “I’m a human. I’m a sinner. I suck. I am loved by God. The end.  That’s my genre.  My story.”

Check out these ladies. They rock’n’roll!

Happy Independence Day???

To be brutally honest, I have a love-hate relationship with the United States. In high school, I altered the Pledge of Allegiance that I recited.  Instead of declaring that our country had liberty and justice "for all," I declared "with liberty and justice for some." Recently, I stopped saying the Pledge altogether because it's really hard to declare my allegiance to a country that has and continues to oppress, cripple, and maim its own citizens.  At the same time, I love what my country offers me—freedom on so many levels, including the freedom of religion, freedom of speech, and knowing that as a young African American woman, nothing is outside of my reach, including a chance at the Presidency.

Herein lies the problem:  The same country that affords me so many opportunities is the same one that denies me so many more.  While becoming the President of the United States (or minimally the First Lady) may be within my reach, I must also wrestle with the fact that my ancestors were enslaved and denied their humanity in this country.  I feel the effects of that in my family and my community to this very day. 

Every year, when paying taxes, I am reminded of the fact that the gap in household income between blacks and whites hasn't narrowed in the last 50 years, since MLK's "I Have a Dream" speech, and that the wealth disparity between whites and blacks grew even wider during the Great Recession, according to the Washington Post.  

I live with the reality that I may make less money than my counterparts because 1) I'm African American, and 2) I'm a woman, even though I graduated from one of the most elite colleges in the country.  Racism, classism and oppression aren’t just in our country’s past; they live in our present.

It's hard for me to grasp how a country that affords so much can deny so much.  But it is possible. After all, this is the land of endless possibilities.

Happy (Belated) Independence Day.

Humility that isn't really humility

1. Growing up Christian, you learn to be humble.  You learn to not think too much of yourself 'cause 1) you're not God, 2) your days are finite, and 3) you're no better than your neighbor.   As a performer, I hear a lot of praise, (after I walk off stage or when I'm on set), and I've had to do a lot of soul-searching about how to embrace humility in an industry that exalts people and itself.  This is what I've learned:

I've learned that humility isn't about not thinking too much of yourself, or thinking less of yourself.  Humility is about understanding who God created you to be, and being secure in that, and it's about being secure with what you are not.  It is about understanding that your identity doesn't come from what you do, while also understanding what you're absolutely amazing at and sharing it with the world—not because you need people’s approval or have a narcissistic need to share, but because to hide it would be selfish; it would be denying the world of the gift that God gave you to share.  

Humility is practicing until you put in your 10,000 hours and practicing some more because you recognize that you can always get better.  Alternately, humility is choosing to not practice sometimes because your grandma needs a ride to the store, because rest is the yang of work, or because you understand that your gift(s) to the world is only a small part of the reason for your existence.  

Today, I stand and walk in humility.  I thank God that I am incredibly smart, delightfully funny, and creatively thoughtful. 

The Loved One (A repost from June 24, 2010)

The Loved One

Like most people, I was a Michael Jackson fan, but unlike most, I shared a birthday with the late pop star. Michael was born on August 29, 1958, and twenty years to the date, I was born. I felt so connected to Michael that for years I was convinced that I was the Pretty Young Thang he was singing about, even though I was only six-years-old when the song debuted.

When I first heard the news of Michael’s passing, I thought I was being punk’d. Seriously. It didn’t matter that I’m not famous and that Ashton Kutcher has never heard of me. I was being punk’d, lied to, bamboozled. I was sure of it. After all, I was sitting in a talent agent’s office and the two people telling me the news were actors, so it was fairly easy for me to convince myself that they were playing a practical joke on me. Yes, I convinced myself that two strangers had conspired to trick me for no apparent reason. That felt more believable than the awful news they brought.

When my mother confirmed the news a few minutes later, I realized that I wasn’t the target of some new hidden camera show. I was the victim of something much worse—grief, for Michael’s death felt strangely personal.

I don’t know why it hit me so hard. Not sure why it took three weeks for me to feel that I was in fact living in reality, and not some poorly plotted reality show. Although fifty-years-old, Michael seemed to be on top of the world, more untouchable than Hammer, more indestructible than the Man of Steel himself. When he sang, I listened, when he danced, I marveled, and when he sang, “I’ll be there,” I believed that he would be—always.

He wasn’t just the King of Pop. He was the King of music, the consummate entertainer, a trailblazing performer who shattered records and raised the bar until he became the bar. He was Michael Jackson, known simply as “M.J.”

M.J.’s music was magical. It had a way of drowning out everything else, even if only for 3:53. When you were listening to M.J., all that mattered was the driving beat and the accompanying movement in your pelvis. You danced to Thriller alongside perfect strangers, declared that Billie Jean was not your lover, and grabbed your crotch like it was socially acceptable.

When you were dancing to Michael, you felt gooooood. You felt the music inside of your body, feeling that the only way to express it was to dance and sing at the top of your lungs. And it didn’t matter if you looked good or sounded good cause the person next to you was singing louder than you. When you were listening to Michael, all that mattered was the music, and it like it was right inside of you, where it was meant to be.

Michael was everything we longed to be. He was, first and foremost, a cultural revolutionary—influencing industries from music to fashion, individuals from Britney Spears to Russell Simmons, and cultures from Motown to Moscow. Who else could turn “Shamone” into a word and create a language composed entirely of screams and grunts that people worldwide recited?

Additionally, Michael possessed a raw talent that was awe-inspiring. While a boy, he sang his way into our hearts with his youthful, soulful voice. As a young man, he moon walked his way into our collective soul with his timeless lyrics and pulsating music. A full-grown man, he declared “I’m bad!” and we replied, “You know it!”

He was—simply put—the best. And who among us hasn’t wanted to be that?

But within his success laid his demise. Fame’s favorite son, he became fame’s prisoner—first enthralled by her, then held captive by her, and finally choked by her.

And while I claim to know neither the inner workings of Michael Jackson nor the world in which he inhabited, I believe that he died years before his physical death on June 25, 2009.

Perhaps his death began with his first plastic surgery.

Or maybe a part of him died the first time that he wore a disguise in public so that he could feel “normal.”

It’s possible that he died when he essentially created his own city, Neverland Ranch, where play was supreme and Michael attempted the impossible—to regain a lost childhood.

Some believe that a part of Michael died when he was accused of child molestation, which resulted in him vowing never to live in Neverland again.

Or perhaps his very public divorce from Lisa Marie Presley killed him?

One could argue that Michael died the first time that he took a prescription drug, whether he needed it or not.

What is for sure is that Michael’s death was unexpected, tragic, and mourned by the masses.

Michael overdosed on a life filled with excess: excessive fame, excessive money, and excessive access; he could buy any material thing that he wanted. But what he seemed to want the most—inner peace—seemed to evade him.

The various plastic surgeries didn’t bring it; neither did the million-dollar shopping sprees. Even the world that he built for himself didn’t provide the sense of security for which he seemed to be searching. He never got enough, so he never stopped. He died, still dancing, although his half-of-a-century-old frame couldn’t endure the intensity of another tour. We wanted more. He wanted to give us more. His finances suggested he needed to give us more. But he couldn’t.

Although the details of his death remain unclear, what is clear is that we never really understood Michael. Fame’s veil separated us.

I vacationed in the mountains of Ojai, California last week.  Here’s what I observed.

The Top 10 Signs You’re Not in L.A. Anymore

1.  You’re surrounded by green trees and mountains nearly everywhere you go.

2.  Each morning you awake to the sounds of a natural river running right outside your bedroom door.

3.  You can drink the tap water unfiltered, without fear of disease or infection.

4.  Your neighbor apologizes for the loud noises at 1am (not party music, but the sound of two chickens being attacked by a wild animal).

5.  You go the speed limit (35mph) on a one-lane road, and NO ONE hunks their horn at you or tailgates you. (Although they do pass you by quickly once the road splits into two lanes.)

6.  People drive big trucks not for show, but because they actually need them to haul stuff (like hay, animals, and the like).

7.  You drive to the beach and find a parking spot in the first lot you drive into.

8.  You park your car in that lot and nearly gasp when you learn that you don’t have to pay to park.

9.  You go for a 1 ½ hour hike and only run into two other people the entire time.

10.  As you walk back to your cabin along the side of the road, you are approached by a man in a car asking if you’d like him to take picture of you.  You say no and he makes a u-turn, approaches you again, this time asking if you need a ride.  You say no again and start to get scared.  Is he lurking behind the next curve, waiting to grab you?  As you contemplate how you will fight him off if it comes to that, another man slows down to ask if you need a ride.  You say no.  You wonder if the people here are genuinely that nice, or if you’re going to end up like those chicks that end up in polaroid pictures on the desks of police detectives in episodes of CSI.  But, you make it back to your cabin unscathed and realize that the people here really are that nice.

BLACK HISTORY MONTH Post in March: What’s Grammar Got To Do With Slavery?

As I watched the movie “12 Years a Slave” gain critical acclaim and garner awards, I couldn’t help but cringe every time I heard the name of the movie. 

Sometimes, American English is tricky: The verb “to be,” conjugated as “is a slave” in the present tense, or “was a slave” in the past tense, often unintentionally suggests identity.  Resultantly, every time we say that someone was a “slave,” which by definition is “a person who is the chattel or property of another,” we unintentionally accept and promote the identity that was assigned to countless people by money-hungry oppressors who liked to refer to themselves as “masters.” 

My hope, as we continue to look at this part of American history in film and other mediums, is that we change our language so that it more clearly reflects what actually happened.  Would we refer to those who were shackled and stripped of language, identity and humanity as “those who were enslaved,” or “those who were told that they were slaves,” or “those who were treated like property” versus “slaves.”  Although “those who enslaved them” would like for us to believe that they were “slaves”—property with identity or worth outside of their ability to work and breed—our language doesn’t need to support that idea.  It can and should speak against it.

*Note: Please excuse any unintentionally ironic grammatical errors, as I had neither the patience nor the energy to perfect this post.  In fact, it’s been sitting incomplete on my laptop for more than a week, and today I decided to just get it done.

BLACK HISTORY MONTH Post In March: Why Samuel L. Jackson was Right (and Wrong)

I’ve experienced the moment before—when a non-black person makes a culturally insensitive or racist remark about a black person.  Like when a white woman asked me why author Malcolm Gladwell won’t “do something” to his hair, or the many times people have told me that I’m “different” from other black people.  Sometimes I haven’t said anything, not wanting to make a scene, but sometimes (in my less finer moments) I’ve said something sarcastic like “Why does he wear his hair natural, the way a lot of black people do?” 

A couple of weeks ago, Samuel L. Jackson had a similar moment with a Los Angeles entertainment reporter.  When the reporter mistook Jackson for Laurence Fishburne, another famous African American actor, Jackson first was confused, then annoyed, then punishing.   The interview went viral immediately, headlines reading, “Samuel L. Jackson destroys reporter.”

If you haven’t seen it, and don’t mind viewing a public shaming, take a look here. 

It’s humiliating, right?  And so unnecessary.  Yes, Jackson was right—what kind of entertainment reporter confuses Samuel L. Jackson with another black actor, let alone any other actor?  He’s unique, in how he looks, speaks, and the roles he plays.  The reporter’s remark was embarrassing and disgraceful to his profession,  given Jackson’s notoriety and the fact that his movies have grossed more worldwide than any other actor in Hollywood, be they black, white, Asian, Latin, or otherwise. 

So yes, Jackson was right to call him out (on his lack of knowledge and cultural misstep), joking that all black actors don’t look alike.  Yes, it was okay for Jackson to press into the reporter’s mistake by bringing to light the fact that black people in this country are often lumped together, confused for one another, and generally not seen, inside Hollywood and outside.

But Jackson went too far.  He pushed ‘til all that the viewing audience saw was the reporter’s mangled, bloodied ego on the screen.  And because of it, Jackson ended up playing the villain, and no one even remembered the purpose of the interview—to promote Jackson’s new movie, RoboCop.

Why did Samuel L. Jackson handle the moment this way?  Was he so fed up with racism and cultural mishaps that this arguably “little” incident just set him off?  Or was he just insulted that he could be confused with anyone, given his mega-movie-star status?  Was it a bit of both?  Whatever the reason, in the midst of doing what was appropriate and “right,” he ended up being so wrong.

When Prayer Is Bad - Part I

I was taught that prayer is always good—that we are to always pray and that our prayers are powerful.  And while all of this is true, I’ve recently started to see how prayer can be bad.  Let me explain.

During prayer one evening in December of 2013, God showed me that my prayers were all wrong.  For several months I had been asking God questions about my love life—was He sending me someone whom I could love and start a family with or was He leading me on a life-long adventure that would involve just the two of us?  Although I could see enjoying either scenario, seeing the joys and challenges that each presented, I really wanted to know,  and I knew that God could tell me,  just like He told me that I would work in entertainment six years before I went on my first audition.

Now while it’s ironic that God showed me that my prayers were wrong while I was praying, what is also noteworthy is that I wasn’t even praying about my love life in that specific moment.  I was actually praying about the disappointment that I felt about a film that I was set to “star” in being postponed.  (For those of you unfamiliar with how the business of entertainment works, “postponement” in Hollywood can mean many things.  It can mean just what it suggests, that the project will take place at a later date, either months or years later, or it can mean what it often means, which is that there is some hiccup (usually financial) and that it will never happen but the producers are either too hopeful to realize it or too proud to admit it.)

Well after I found out that the film had been “postponed,” I began to feel the weight of the disappointment.  Only six days away from walking onto set, I was mentally and emotionally prepared to take on my character. I had cleared my schedule, learned my lines, developed my character, rehearsed with the other actors, hired a coach, done the table read, and worked with the make-up artist to figure out how to age me for the role.  I was ready.   And then I learned that I didn’t need to be.  Well…not yet … or… maybe never?  I didn’t know how to handle the news.  I knew that projects could disappear suddenly and had experienced them falling through before, but this was my first lead role in a film, and I had spent months preparing.  I deflated and then I cried.  I quickly told myself to just assume that the film was dead; it was easier to deal emotionally if I assumed that it was over rather than continuing to hope only to be disappointed again down the road.

But as I told myself that it was over, I realized what I was doing: I was trying to protect myself.  And in that moment I realized that I had to make a choice: either I could tell myself that the film was dead so that I could protect myself, or  I could maintain hope that it would still happen and trust that God would take care of my emotions, even if the project fell through. 

I decided to trust God.  So during that prayer time, as I was asking God to help me deal with the disappointment—both real and potential—I asked Him to show me ways that I was trying to protect myself in other areas of my life.  That’s when He brought up my romantic life.  He began to show me that my prayers during the last several months had been wrong.  I had been asking Him to speak to me about my love life because I wanted His words, (whether a “yes” or a “no”), to protect me from the potential disappointment that the future held.  If He said “yes, I have someone for you,” then I could continue to hope.  If the answer was “no,” then I would know to grieve now and move on, preparing myself for a life of singleness.

No wonder He hadn’t answered me for all of those months: My prayer was all wrong.  I was looking to his “prophetic words” to instantaneously calm the part of me that feared experiencing tremendous disappointment, instead of trusting in the essence of who God is, which is goodness. 

Today, I no longer pray for God to reveal the future to me, (although I’m open to it).  Instead, I ask Him to help me experience this Psalm daily “Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life…” –Psalm 23:6

My prayer is that I too would be willing to give up my freedom and life so that others can experience the love and freedom that God desires for them.

Welcome Back, Chante!

This blog sat blank for most of 2013, not because I didn’t have anything to say, and not because I lacked the discipline to write. It sat empty because the impetus needed to write well either wasn’t there or ebbed before I managed to plop myself in front of the computer screen to type. Instead I spent most of my free time praying—by myself, with my housemate, with my prayer partner, with my spiritual director, and with my church family. Some days I spent hours praying; other days I snuck in only a few minutes. But all of the focused time that I spent with God last year provided me with the perspective and fuel that I need to fill up the cyber-pages of this blog in 2014.

I plan to share some amazing stories with you this year—events that happened in 2013 that changed the very make-up of my being, along with the startling, awe-inspiring, wondrous things that will happen this year. I hope that these stories enlighten and encourage you along your journey. And if they do, please drop me a line to let me know, and please share them with your friends and family.

Happy New Year!



Much Love,

-C

AKA Chantisha

AKA Chantico

AKA Grandma



P.S. Please let me know if you have any prayer request.  I'd love to pray for you!

There is No Small Gig

There is no small gig.  That’s what I have to keep telling myself.  It doesn’t matter what the pay is, the significance of the role, or if it’s going to get major air time.  What matters is that I was chosen. Out of the thousands or hundreds of submissions, I. was. chosen.  That’s HUGE, especially in a city where hundreds and sometimes thousands of people vie to be in the background! 

To be honest, believing this mantra is hard for me.  It’s hard because I’m used to being the chosen one: the woman chosen to receive the scholarship, the one chosen to lead a song on the album, the one chosen to represent her state.  I spent my entire life being #1, in the upper echelon, or at least in the top 10%!  Looking back, I see the inherent problems of this kind of existence.

Always being on top didn’t allow me to learn how to deal with NOT being chosen.  It didn’t teach me how to want something badly, not get it, yet rebound unscathed.  It didn’t teach me how to develop a perennial work ethic that surpasses immediate and indefinite results.  And it didn’t cultivate the type of gratefulness that I need to thrive in this present space. 

So now, in 2013, I invite God into this space, this new way of being, and I feel Him working.  He’s cultivating an internal gratefulness that is connected neither to how many gigs I book, nor to the size and scope of those gigs.  I find that I’m becoming grateful just for opportunities, and grateful for new relationships (with producers, casting directors, other actors, make-up artists).  Every audition is a gift, and everyone I meet on this journey is a jewel, because there is no small gig. 

 

No Longer a Dream

 

Regradless of your political leanings, you have to note the significance of today: President Barak Obama's Inaugural Celebration on MLK Day. Here's part of a spoken word piece that I wrote about King some years ago.

 

"Dr. King was as passionate as Malcom X, as smart as Cornel West, as outspoken as Sojourner Truth, as controversial as Booker T., and as courageous as a lion.  Although short in physical stature, like David the shepherd, he was tall in spiritual stature, like Paul the apostle.  Like Paul, he had experienced suffering, and like Paul, he had befriended suffering—made it his best friend.  Threatened almost daily, stabbed once, the victim of home bombings twice, Jailed 29 times, he continued to march to a different drum, to stride toward freedom, so that he and we could overcome.  Yes, he thought about giving up, but believed that the cross of Christ was his salvation, and that suffering would secure freedom. 

 

By any account he was a great man, but by all accounts he was just a man—“perfectly imperfected”—an example of greatness and weakness lying side by side —a leader of nations, but a cheater—on his doctoral thesis and on his wife?

 

Catapulted to fame due to his poetic Black preacher’s prose and stance for justice, he challenged our nation to believe what then seemed impossible—Black and White—equal and together.

 

His sun set prematurely, like Malcolm, at age 39, but his dream continues in you and in me, Chanté Laree, a descendant of a people enslaved and daughter of the dream."

 

2012: The Year I Gave Up Everything

In 2005, I prayed the words found in Philippians 3:10, to God: “That I may know him (Christ), and the power of his resurrection, and the fellowship of his sufferings, being made conformable unto his death.”  It was a heartfelt prayer, prayed sincerely, but quite naively because that prayer ushered in a year containing unparalleled levels of suffering and general havoc.  It was crazy.  I told myself to never pray for such things again, but I forgot and 2012 was the most intense, inane year of my life!  It was the year that all of my prayers caught up with me and words that once seemed like idyllic requests (praying that I would love God more than I could ever love any man and praying that my external success would never exceed my internal character) suddenly seemed like very, very bad thought-out prayer requests.

Yes, I prayed to love God more than I could ever love anyone else, but I didn’t foresee having to deal with a painful break-up with one of the most wonderful, godly, frabjous people I have ever had the pleasure of knowing, and then going through the process of becoming truly grateful to God for the break-up.

And yes I prayed for both success in the arts/entertainment plus the internal fortitude to handle it, but I didn’t realize that shooting five national commercials, conducting red carpet interviews, and taking on new writing assignments with print and online publications would be preceded by:

·         Incessant crying (crying during sermons, crying while praying, crying while driving, crying on my way to set.  It got so bad I stopped wearing mascara.)

·         Unprecedented levels of pain and confusion that made me decide to stop thinking so that I could stay sane.

·         Feeling like the rudder on my internal ship was in the repair shop and couldn’t be used, leaving me feeling like a ship without a rudder.

·         Letting go of EVERYTHING.

Also, I didn’t anticipate that in 2012 I would book the two most amazing gigs of my career (including an international project that would shoot in another country and a national talk show pilot) only to lose both within the time span of eight days.

The pain of loss, the pain of almost gaining and losing, and even the pain and cost that come with gaining pushed me not just to my knees, but to a place of trying to learn why God does the things that He does.  A new theology formed (and is forming), and I have been pressed to a place where I’m asking God “Teach me how to pray.”  That’s my prayer as I enter 2013, but this time I pray with my eyes wide open.  I know that it won’t be all roses, although the Tournament of Roses Parade suggests that it should be, but I also know that the joy birthed from pain is the most wonderful kind of joy there is.

What’s your prayer for this year? Know that God doesn’t just hear prayers. He answers them!

Happy New Year! 

Adventures in Online Dating

So what have I been up to lately???  Well besides being insanely busy with my freelance work, I started doing some research that led me to an online dating site. (If you wanna know more, just ask.) I wanted to share my experiences here on this blog ‘cause everything’s online now anyway, right? (jewelry, husbands, babies!)   Here’s what I’ve discovered:

·         Online dating is a world of its on.  It’s a world where you can be anyone you wanna be—a retired firefighter, a successful businesswoman, or you (only 15 pounds lighter and 10 years younger).  You can be that person for as long as you want—well, until you have to meet someone face to face and they realize that 12 is your clothes size and the number of times you’ve turned 25.

·         Online is where you present your idealized self—the one you’ve always hoped to be, the one you’re working on, slowly.  (Sure, you love to work out!  You just don’t do it often because you’re too busy.)

·         Looking for dates online can feel like you’re shopping for clothes: “too big, too short, not my style…”  (If you’re not careful, it can lead to dehumanizing people: click, delete, click, delete.) 

·         It’s easy to feel overwhelmed with all of the choices, like when you receive a gift card to your favorite shoe store and they’re having a sale on the whole store!  (WAY too many options.)

·         You can learn a lot about someone by the pictures that they choose to display, especially their main profile pic.  My favorite pictures are those that show those pearly whites.  (The “I’m a thug” photos don’t really radiate “Hi, I’m a friendly man who could father your children.”)   My profile picture is above.  What do you think that it says about me?

·         A lot of people write similar things like “I’m laid back, easy going.”  Or “Communication & trust are most important.”  I like it when someone says something unusual. One guy I came across had a riddle in his description.  Another emailed a poem.

·         Important Tip:  Working on your external marketing is just as important as your internal character.  (If no one ever bothers to stop by your page, what good does it do you to be so fabulous?)

·         too much typin is involved.  Makes your get lazy, but then you want pple to know that u really can spill. 

·         I would LOVE to hear about your online dating experiences!  (Feel free to call me, if you prefer to keep your online escapades “private.”)