No Discernible Path

My face still hurts from Wednesday. Goodness, I wish I was prepared for the day, but it came like most tsunamis do—with terrifying quickness and no good intention.

I used to think that emotions were unhelpful and distracting. Maybe anger was good—it drove people to sometimes fight for good change and reform. Joy and happiness had obvious benefits. But sadness? Grief? I remember feeling the unstoppable urge to cry when my grandmother was laid to rest. I grieved the little of her life I knew and I cried for my father. I cried when my dogs died. But I otherwise restricted the messy side of emotion to the back of my mind. Strong women are focused and they have relentless confidence, I told myself. Those women don't succumb to sadness.

How could you succumb when there was work to be done? In some ways, I still struggle to tolerate weakness. God is sanctifying and changing me, bit by bit.

And that's because emotion is not something I grew up with. I was raised in a middle-class household, affording me some privileges, but not many. The years I spent taking bread and cheese sandwich lunches to school were also years spent struggling with feeling. I love my parents and my siblings, but the full spectrum of human emotions lived everywhere but my home. So I'm thankful for the grace of college friends who've taught me how to feel. A husband who feels very deeply. Mentors who weep with me.

But most days, it's still hard to avoid running away from anything that feels messy. The last few weeks have been the culmination of a long-resisted relationship with the messy side of emotion. It started with an unexpected outburst at work. 

Honestly, outbursts are my nightmare. I'd rather let the zombies that roam my actual nightmares tear my neck out than have an unexpected show of emotion in the workplace. But by the time I regained consciousness and stopped my outburst at work, I was shaking. 

I shared things with the other leaders at my organization that I'd only ever shared with my husband and a couple of girlfriends. I told them that I felt hopeless that the organization could achieve healthy multiculturalism, that I felt like I didn't belong, that the America-centric office made it hard for me to bring my full self to work. I confessed that good intentions were no longer good enough and loving me and other people of colour needed a more active approach. It was all raw, but true.

Two hours later, I was in my tub, struggling to breathe, watching white flashes overtake the insides of my vision. For this emotionally-stunted girl, living through the last few weeks of America felt almost as worst as the previous 8 years. And it peaked that day with my first anxiety attack.

I don't know how we're supposed to do it—watch person after person get snatched from this earth and just move on. All suffering wrecks me. All of it. But to worry that the people tasked to maintain peace in my neighborhood are scared of me—scared enough to "accidentally" end my life? I just can't get past that.

The thing is, I'm more scared of them than they are at me. But if I bought a gun and fired in self-defense, I'd rot in prison, all the while knowing that justice doesn't flow as freely the other way. 

I don't know how people have lived here their entire lives and not lost their sanity and their joy. I struggle. I grew up knowing that I was Black and beautiful. I was a force. I had the Holy Spirit in me and the determination of my ancestors. I was a fighter and I grew up believing I could accomplish anything. I never imagined that the anything I wanted to accomplish was to simply live and regain the joy this land seems eager to take from Black people. Not like America hasn't taken enough from Blackness.

Last Wednesday's anxiety attack was hopefully the last one. I'm tired and my soul feels overwhelmed. The enemy is prowling at my heel, snipping. And I'm trying to pray but I feel like I'm floating, untethered from my body. 

I didn't learn how to process emotions well but I'm thankful for therapy, even though progress is slow and the work is hard. Surrendering my suffering to the only one who knows and has fully recovered from suffering is hard. Honestly, sometimes just saying a prayer for my own dang self is hard. But I've come to realize that there's no discernible path but forward.

Honestly, I grieve for the lives lost, but I especially grieve for Black people who don't know Jesus. At the end of the day, I can run to my Father and experience true, unfiltered joy, even while processing sadness. The answer to every question, including the difficult question of suffering, ends with Jesus. So if you're reading this, know that racial injustice will persist, so pause to pray for your Black brothers and sisters. This trauma is ongoing and it is distracting to our efforts at progress as a community. It's filling our homes with fear and causing anxiety to build. If you're reading this, pray for salvation for your Black neighbors and coworkers—that they will experience the only real hope anyone can ever experience at a time like this. And if you haven't already, get to work. Prayers are not enough; this fight needs active and willing participants who are willing to make tangible sacrifices, be humble, and be persistent. There are enough books on this, enough organizations that need your support—find an avenue and do something.