I’m more myself now than I ever was.
When I look in the mirror. I don’t see the sad eyed-girl with low self-esteem. Or the abandonment of my mother. To have a second husband and leave us. That was her choice.
To leave her kids with their grandmother during their teenage years. (Never -mind my dead father).
As I bent down to tie my shoe. I let my mind wander back, to that girl, I used to be. On the floor of grandma’s corner house, faced down into the carpet. Hands over my face. I’m barely breathing. Tears falling out the sides.
My brother and his friends are teasing me for wearing the same winter hat. Day in, day out I wore that hat. It was starting to be really hot. I still hadn’t put a comb to my hair. Let alone, look at that hot mess sitting on my head. So I did, what I thought most 13-year-olds do when no ones looking. I stuck a wool hat on my head and kept it moving. Until those boys snatched it off.
Then all that shame, all that matted-down nappy-shame ran over me. My younger cousin walked in the middle of my disgrace. In the middle of their full on the enjoyment of sheer bullying. She covered me with her love. Being all grown, at six years old. She wiped my tears. Pulled my body off the floor.
I made it. Past their scrutiny, past their foul words. Past the regret of not knowing how to take care of myself.
We’d become best friends that day. She too needed a mother. I cooked her meals, walked her to school. She introduced me to an old school beautician in our neighborhood. The rest is history
God is good like that.~your kindness sister Krissy Mosley
out in the middle of nowhere watching the breeze comb through the sky, sitting down at the banks of river, tip, the scales of grace- while the waters are flowing and the green grass tickles the heels of ivory sand.
Lay down in the coolness of the day being loved in all that God made watching me, and me watching God and God walking in the silence
and silence blowing back a smile in my direction . that’s how I knew I was something God made and God was there eavesdropping goodness …~kindness sister Krissy
with conviction, mothers raise their children in prayers like rivers of the night, like the dreams of the negro mother. A higher Love, through adversity, through trauma and tragedy. through all night prayers, sitting by the bedside,
awaiting -little makings of something beautiful.
A higher Love,
that love would ask a mother’s dream – be heard over preaching reins of suffering up storms,
be heard again in the quiet ache and swarm.
allow the the dust to settle in a moment a woman is born…
Her prayers will breathe.
Dear God, for all of our Mothers
our prayers will wear our names as embers that burn before the throne prayers that be: raging, weeping, sowing , seeping prayers that break the monotony, degradation and brutality prayers that have no end and no beginning. ~kindness sis Krissy.