You cannot rush it.

Growth
Healing
Pain

You cannot rush it.

It's a process, a pruning, refining. You cannot wish or hope it away, pray it away, or skip past a part. You cannot rush it.

Life has a way of catching up with you and making you face demons of the past. I admit, I was one who thought that I could just push forward. It was with sincere heart.

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I am not a cook.

Save me the domestic talk about women in the kitchen. It is 2016. I work 45+ hour weeks, while tending to children, and saving the world. Not to mention, men aren't quite handling business like the '60s anymore either. But, I digress...

As much as my mother and grandmother tried persuading me to help out, learn those coveted mac n' cheese, sweet potato, and caramel cake recipes...burnin' in the kitchen wasn't quite my forte. Why cook when someone else can do it for me? Hello, restaurants? Grocery shopping and meal planning have always been completely overwhelming. Plus, I married a natural born kitchen slayer, my husband went to culinary school.

Eventually though, children will make you feel like a failure, and eating out gets expensive. Not to mention, my 7-year-old is all of a sudden hungry 24/7. In stepped meal delivery service Hello Fresh.

Ain't I a Woman?
Heart
Laid bare at your feet
It already knows your footprint

Broken

Ain't  I a Woman?
Hips
Giving pure life
And opening up to your demons

Consumed

Craving dysfunction, paralyzed by pain
Rather be walked on, than walk away

Woman

I am going to point out the elephant in the room that no one wants to admit.
In our disgust, and for many pure concern over the events happening in our cities all across the country, we turn away, angry and frustrated.

All over, I read statuses saying, "violence isn't the answer, it's not going to solve anything." There are cries that "this isn't our city" and "why would you tear up your own community?" 

Trust me, I understand that frustration. No one wants to see the blocks that they love and care for in flames. Corner stores that families have put their heart and soul into building up are looted, shattered windows. It can literally stop your heart as you see protestors scream, as they pour milk on their faces trying to wipe away the stinging pain of tear gas, and pepper spray. Officers who may have good hearts, and sympathy for what is going on, are forced to strap up in intimidating gear facing off with people who may very well be their neighbors.

This isn't our America. Or does history tell a different story?

I imagine if my baby boy could write, he'd scribble little love notes to mommy, so I can read them at work. It might say, "I miss you" or something like that.

Children have the cutest ways of showing love, and maybe they can't always verbalize their feelings, but they know how to hit you right in the heart.

For the past few days I've noticed a "gift" in my work bag. Abram loves his "little guys" as he calls them, a collection of tiny superheroes and other figures. He plays with them every single day, won't leave the house without them. But, lately he's been taking one of his newest little guys and slipping it in my bag before he goes to sleep.

I'm not with my babies in the morning. I finally convinced my job to give me a different schedule, nights were grueling for my family, I wouldn't really see my kids until the weekend.

​But maybe my little man misses his morning wake up's, he'd slide next to my bed and say "Mommy, it's morning time. It's light outside." In my fog, I'd usually tell him to lay next to me for a minute...just a few more minutes.

My baby boy can't write love notes yet, but I imagine his little guy is one more simple way he could express his love to me. My heart is full, not because everything is right or perfect, but because I have pure love living right outside of me.

​

"Promise me you'll never stop writing."

My godmother was just days away from her last breath.  Pancreatic cancer had hit her once, she beat it. The second time wouldn't prove as promising. I was young and strangely experienced with death, I knew what those final days looked like, the slow decline, labored breathing. Pain. I tried preparing myself. Death sneaks up on you, even when you know it's near.

She held my hand, or maybe I held hers. She was weak and frail.

I promised her.

The years following her death would be a whirlwind. I learned that I had a way with words, gifted even. I chose a career that would highlight that. I took pride in crafting stories that sparked emotion.  I had a knack for channeling the voiceless.

Still, her voice haunted me, "Never stop writing."

"I am," I thought. I've built a whole career around writing.  However, I knew her final plea was not about what I did for money, but what I did for soul. And then life hit.

Without going into too much detail, yet, it took some painful experiences, isolation, and an overall feeling of despair to convince me to pick up a pen again.

I didn't need convincing, rather, it was all I had left. I wrote with a fervor and desperation that honestly, kept me sane. It was in those moments, where I scribbled out years of frustration, that I began to hear God again. Where I started to understand my purpose again.

Writing connected me back to the creator. He's given me a lot to say, and admittedly sometimes I come up with some wild things to say on my own. But, now I'm channeling that gift. I'm doing what I've promised. I know this is just the beginning.

Anything you've been putting off that you know you're destined to do? Talk to me...