Week 11: Sunday Service Announcements
We go to God ourselves, swingin’ and bangin’ on heaven’s front door (respectfully, in Jesus’ name, amen?), and the floodgates of heaven pour out for us.
God said it’s time.
The time has come for you to choose you.
No, you don’t need their approval
Nor do you need to prepare any longer.
God said the time is now.
God is waiting.
What if this whole time your dreams were waiting for you?
The Rhythm of My Resurrection.
Some evenings, my body is a fractured country, a broken tongue, but by each morning, I’ve resurrected all my bones1.
Now there ain’t no sweet way to usher y’all into this sermon forming on my tongue, so I'll just get straight to the point: The soul of a Black woman is often subjected to a constant state of wear and tear, existing at the intersection of two marginalized groups, as a dear friend2 of mine once stated in part.
But Black women don’t come with no margin. We’re constantly pushing the border, trying to prove our worth. Trying to get some respect put on our names.
Black women are tired. Tired of being unprotected and neglected. Tired of being the well of living water that everyone wants to sip from. Sometimes we just want to be for ourselves.
The Black woman is expected to be everybody’s sanctuary but her own. Expected to be the altar for everyone else’s sin, but who offers forgiveness for her iniquities? Who accepts her as she is, especially when she no longer serves “the strong black woman” persona that many require of her? Who holds her tears, sings her psalms, testifies in her name?
We can’t be everybody's strength, we are nobody’s wasted breath, and we don’t need anybody’s pity party of a prayer. We go to God ourselves, swingin’ and bangin’ on heaven’s front door (respectfully, in Jesus’ name, amen?), and the floodgates of heaven pour out for us.
If it’s one thing for certain, y’all gone feel our wrath. Y’all gone hear us.
This is my decree for Black women, as I utter this benediction: May we pray out loud, dance out loud, curse out loud, live out loud. May our motion be one that nobody can cease. May our sisterhood serve as congregations for unfolding when we need to, hootin’ and hollerin’ when we need to. May it be our space of communal ease.
The Black woman is a walking testimony. Every waking moment is her resurrection. With every piece of her that dies here she can only become more alive. We have been called to make flowers of wounds, bring life to barren places.
She must believe in and never, ever forget the weapon of a woman that she is.
Now say it to yourself:
I am a walking testimony. Every waking moment is my resurrection. With every piece of me that dies here I can only become more alive. I have been called to make flowers of wounds, bring life to barren places.
I must believe in and never, ever forget the weapon of a woman that I am.
1 From my book Beckoning of the Wind: An Ode to Motherhood
2 A conversation on motherhood featuring Ambreia Meadows-Fernandez of
Reflections of an Agnostic Soul.
I grew up with the church woven into my life. It was like Sunday lunch with macaroni pie and callaloo—a must. I was born and bred in Trinidad.
Good Morning, Church - Let Us All Stand
I was a staunch Catholic. I could recite Hail Marys in my sleep. I also did my fair share of altar girl and lector duties. Sure, I strayed a bit in high school, testing rebellion like every good teenager. But, after a fire-and-brimstone retreat, I came back, rosary in hand, ready to save my soul from damnation.
Granny said,
“You should be marked with the sign of the Holy Spirit as soon as you become a woman, just before your first menstruation.”
But life has a funny way of shaking things up when you least expect it. At 21, I packed my bags and moved to the US, thinking I’d find a nice little church and keep the Catholic rhythm going. Spoiler alert: it didn't quite go that way. I bounced from church to church like a stray ping-pong ball, but nothing clicked. I felt adrift, missing that solid ground under my feet. Then I stumbled upon the Legion of Mary, this offshoot of Catholicism with a flair for the dramatic. At first, it felt like home—a little intense, sure, but familiar. But then, as they say, the plot thickened.
Let’s say their teachings didn’t sit right with me. Women were to be quiet and subservient to their husbands. Contraception was a sin. Don't get me started on their views on LGBTQ folks and marriage. Oh, and apparently, every other religion was inferior. And as for the stories about priests doing unspeakable things? I hit my limit. I couldn’t pretend anymore. I disconnected, and that was that.
These days, I call myself agnostic. I’m not sure of anything except that I don’t have all the answers. I’m okay with the uncertainty, with asking questions and not always needing to tie everything up in a neat little bow. Some days, I lean into the idea of a higher power; other days, I’m content with the thought that we’re all just stardust trying to make sense of it all.
Sacrament of Confession
Now, I’ll admit—I miss much of church, though—the community, the sense of purpose, the routine of it all. But I'm not actively searching for a replacement. I consider the answers to be in my ancestors' faith, hidden in the past I don't know yet.
Kneel: And just like that, we’re back to God and other acts of Sunday Service!
But in whose service?
Offering Plate
First Collection: I want to shout: WE ARE NOT A MONOLITH ⬅ Consider this offering from my sistah
.Second Collection: Subscribe and follow to read my story offerings. My writings reflect my belief in love—the real, messy, soul-stirring, make-me-cheat, make-me-stay love that makes us human.
“I trace my desire for love back to a time when I was just a child —a child who was never claimed by a father, who a mother gave away. There has always been a space within me, vast and yearning, that longs to be desired, to be claimed, to be drenched in love from head to toe…” Scarlet
“Perhaps in reading these bits of my imagination in print, you'll claim a piece of the love I have always sought, and in doing so, you'll help me find the acceptance I've longed for.” Scarlet
So here I am, still on this journey with no clear finish line, and you know what? That’s okay. Being agnostic means embracing the mystery, the questions, the not-knowing. There’s beauty in wandering, honoring this messy, complex human experience, and finding meaning in my pilgrimage through this one life.
(I) Stand: In the name of the Father, (the Mother), (my Ancestors), (my Brothers and Sisters), the Son and the Holy Spirit…
Benediction in Song
“Someone let the devil know. Tell him that… (I am) still a strong tower!” - God Problems by Chandler Moore, Maverick City Music, and Naomi Raine
In My Black Womanhood. Abroad.
I was gonna start this letter with something churchy to match the theme. (Especially as a Reverend’s granddaughter with Bible verses ret’ to go at any moment). And I wondered if I was tying too hard, in a publication specifically for US, when I’m just happy to connect with folks like me, to tell a story. So, I’m just gon’ be me and say hey y’all 👋🏾 and talk to you about how I’ve eased into my Black womanhood, while living abroad.
A lot of times , as I’m scrolling through the socials, I see comment after comment from Black women expressing a desire to move abroad (or simply away from home) and the fear that comes with it.
My life is a TESTIMONY, as a formerly agoraphobic, anxiety-ridden, severely overweight & depressed young woman: you belong in this big ole world in all your Black glory and as you go, your battles won override your fears.
After two years living in South Korea, a few months in Vietnam, a few visits to Tokyo, a hop over to Bangkok, back to America, and now four+ years in Senegal, I have discovered so much more about myself and my Blackness. I faced my fears head-on to live outside of my idea of who I was & what “Black” is.
& it is such a wild feeling to realize that who you think you are is nowhere near who you can, and will, become when you have the opportunity to step beyond every single thing you’ve ever known.
There’s a lot to be said about giving yourself the space and grace to find exactly where you feel you belong, away from family & friends who have only one view of you.
BAYBEH! You could not tell 2015-me (who didn’t want to be seen or touched for any reason), that 10 years later I’d have traveled around the world impacting hundreds of children through teaching & my youth association, befriended wonderful strangers turned friends/lovers/family, explored magical places that were on my vision boards, and (especially here in Senegal), be & want to be desired & known —consistently!
When I went back to America, (after 2 years of living & growing solo & suddenly stuck because of the panny), I felt boxed into the energy of stagnation — of everything staying the same and everyone around me wanting me to stay the same. I felt pulled into that same tired ideal of a Black girl turned woman: burdened mentally, physically, emotionally, financially and caring for other people’s problems, forced to be silent about it, and under the foot of that old mentality that young folks should be seen and not heard. At my big age! Also returning were overwhelming feelings of both invisibility & hyper-visibility that could lead to real harm. My spirit couldn’t handle it.
I was blessed to get on up out of that & arrive here, but it shook me that home didn’t feel welcoming anymore.
Yes, in Korea, I was called weird a lot by teens, old people threw elbows my way or refused to sit next to me on the subway, and I was called a wench by somebody’s mama, but I could laugh a lot of that shit away and still walk the streets at night in peace. In Bangkok, I felt like nobody gave a damn, in an easy-going way. The food was delicious, the sites were gorgeous, and it started my love affair with riding on the back of moto bikes at all times of day or night. The most peace arrived in Vietnam and Japan, where it felt like I was a random human; not anything special or different, just me. I explored around Tokyo by foot, got lost on the trains just to be nosy, & took a bus to Mt. Fuji where an old village grandpa gave me extra bags of the sweetest dried strawberries. In Hoi An, I jumped on a moto to go deep into the countryside at midnight, took food tours with strangers, & was pulled around a market in excitement by the kindest person —given gifts by aunties when they found out it was my birthday.
I got to know more about myself and the world around me away from “home”; unburdened by so many expectations and projections of Black women.
Finally, now, I feel at home in Senegal. I feel extra ~Black, seeing mostly faces that look like me, enjoying (amazing) food & close community that’s near-instantly familiar as a foundation of the culture back home. I feel closer to the Black Baptist preachings & teachings I came up with too, as I rely on my inner compass & peace that surpasses all understanding; when dicey/frustrating situations arise. I’m also challenged in my faith to embrace the beauty in other cultures’ beliefs and in my Black (American) womanhood —to let go of some of my own ideas of being a Black woman and woman period: surrendering, letting people show up for me, + letting men handle men’s business, while still heightening my discernment & advocating for self against (largely patriarchal) bullshit and misperceptions of my Americanness. People do take advantage.
It’s far more nuanced but you feel me?
I finally get to be all of myself. & I feel free to discover new versions of me.
I encourage you to explore and find the place(s) where you can do the same. It’s possible and powerful. 💛
Prayer Hotline.
I pray you stop letting people take advantage of you.
I pray you know you are a walking testimony.
I pray you stay in alignment with the path that is paved for you.
I pray that today you choose you.
I pray that you continue to choose you.
I pray you experience rest.
I pray you trust in divine protection.
I pray you recognize your potential.
I pray you make the decision that you are worthy.
Let the church say Amen!
Amen.
BlackStack Reads:
On Saturday, the second part of the F.U.B.U. Collections series Black Hair stories hit inboxes and I think we all can agree that
, , and understood the assignment.In case you haven’t had a chance to engage, here is the article.
our hair tells a story sometimes we just need to listen to it.
You know one of the most beautiful things about being Black is our flexibility with our hair options. Because of the way our hair grows and the texture allows us to use our hairstyles as a form of self-expression, we are walking piecing of artwork.
A special curation will hit your inboxes this Friday thanks to
and some special guest writers!
Oh yeah, and did you hear the news? BlackStack is now officially a nonprofit magazine publication and the first physical magazine will be in your MAILBOX this year. This was not on my 2024 bucket list but like McDonald’s, I’m loving it!
one thing about Black people...
What if I told you that BlackStack is now a nonprofit magazine publication for Black writers to showcase their authentic voices and experiences?
 | A guest post by
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 | A guest post by
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Thank you for letting me share my words in this space! Enjoyed reading all of the contributions as well!🤎
Uplifting the congregation this morning Lords and Ladies and Them. Amen.