Week 19: Sunday Service Announcements
“Ease on down the road, don’t you carry nothing that might be a load.”
Here’s the sign you’ve been praying for; only pack your toolbox. There is nothing you need to bring with you on this journey other than yourself because you have been training for this moment for a lifetime.
Our ancestors gave us our beautiful brown skin, and it’s our toughest leather. As a community, we have already come together in unity through connection to collaborate. Assata Shakur said in her affirmation two things that I want to touch on today.
“And, if I know anything at all, it’s that a wall is just a wall and nothing more at all. It can be broken down."
When I read that affirmation, I felt both the power to destroy the wall single handed but also the leaning hand to make sure it wraps around our community to box THEM out as we rest and build our new world.
“And I believe that a lost ship, steered by tired, seasick sailors, can still be guided home to port.”
This week across all social media platforms I witnessed Black women come to agree it’s time to stop nurturing other cultures and communities outside of our own. I heard the Black community cry and mourn from the exhaustion and betrayal of the country. But as I read the words of our ancestors I can’t help but accept our rest comes in our fight for our community and we preserve what’s left.
Community, to me, feels like alignment—a place of connection, collaboration, and unity. I’m grateful for this platform that allows me to express my thoughts and art freely. It’s a space where I can exist without comparison, a common ground where I can be heard, share, and engage with others. It’s a relationship that both gives and receives, generously and genuinely.
Community to me feels like DEVOTION.
The constant act of a teacher becoming a student and student serving as a teacher over and over it is the CLEAREST reflection going way beyond vision and nurturing sight as in hindsight insight foresight…
Communion is holy engaging us in countless acts of invocation and baptism.
Community exposes the heart and renews the mind. In community, we are the clay actively being molded in good orderly direction (God)
Special thank you to
for bringing this week’s praise and worship team to the Sunday Service Announcements! Our sister produced the Black Theatre Festival, be sure to connect to support.I am Them
I used to sing quietly and it hurt me.
I was always taught to sing out and sing loud by my father.
But if they heard me, they would see who I was, who I am.
I wasn’t her anymore. Right?
I don’t have my tambourines, full choir, and joyfully clapping hands. Raising my hand was enough...
I sang out one time, and they wanted me to do it again, just like “them.” Who is “them?” Are they still me?
“Why are you singing like that?” My husband would ask.
“I don’t know...” I responded
Then I left. Found a new church.
They sing loud here, even with the mixed crowd.
But not me. They don’t need to hear me.
“Enough. You need to sing out!” My husband said. Just like my father. Fine. They soon asked me to be on the worship team. Just like I thought. “I’ll do it but I can’t sing like them!” I said
“What does that mean?”
“I-I don’t know..” I responded.
Now I sing hymns in a different city.
“You going to sing loudly now?” My husband asked.
“I am,” I responded.
Makes me wonder who I was truly singing for back then. I don’t know, but I am “them” and I always will be.
Trust Ain’t Easy But I’m Trying
Trust. It’s one of those words we hear preached from the pulpit, passed around like the collection plate after Sunday Service. A one-syllable promise, something we’re supposed to offer freely, like a whispered “Amen.” But for me, trust feels more like standing in the middle of a storm, no shelter in sight. Every time I think about letting someone in, it’s like inviting them to hold parts of me I’m still learning to protect, as if I’m handing over fragile glass, knowing it could shatter. I want to believe it’s worth it, that there’s beauty in opening up. But the truth is… trust ain’t easy.
People love to say, “Trust me” like it’s as simple as reaching out for the pastor’s blessing. But let’s be real; trust isn’t a quick prayer for comfort. It’s a slow, sometimes painful process that always carries a risk. It’s like handing over delicate pieces of who I am: my stories, my dreams, my fears, and hoping they don’t end up shattered. And those pieces? They’re even harder to give when you’ve felt the pain of being lied to. Especially when the lies came softly or in pretty packages, hidden in omissions that were supposed to protect. Or when promises turned to silence, and love turned into something you no longer recognized. Trust is precious. Trust is fragile. Trust is a risk.
I’ve felt the pain of broken trust too many times, leaving me cautious, maybe even guarded. But it’s not that I don’t want to trust; it’s that I know what it costs when it goes wrong.
For some of us, broken trust is a weight we’ve carried for years. It’s a memory that replays in the quiet, in those late-night hours when we can’t sleep, reminding us of what was lost. Maybe it was someone we loved with everything, who promised to stay, only to walk away when we needed them most. Or maybe it was a parent who didn’t show up the way we needed, a love we craved but never felt, leaving a wound so deep it’s hard to know where it ends. And if you’ve been there, you know that betrayal isn’t just a bruise; it’s a break that changes the way we see ourselves and the world.
And then someone tells you to trust again like it’s a light switch you flip back on. But trust, once broken, is something we rebuild from the ground up, one small, tender piece at a time. I’m realizing it’s not about blind faith in someone else. Real trust, the kind that grounds me, has to start with me. The kind that says, “I am my own safe place, my own solid ground, even when the world feels shaky.” But that doesn’t mean I want to do it all alone. In fact, I know that trusting myself is part of how I open back up to others, how I hold space for connection without losing myself.
What I’m learning, slowly, is that real trust starts with me, but it doesn’t end there. It’s not just about hoping someone else will hold me; it’s about knowing that I can hold myself, that even if someone lets me down, I am still enough. It’s about looking in the mirror and saying, “I’m here for you,” and meaning it, even when it’s hard. Real trust is believing we are worthy of connection and love, even if we’ve been let down before. It’s believing that the strength I find within me can be the very thing that helps me stay open, that makes me brave enough to try again.
So here I am, heart open, cautious but hopeful, leaning into that beautiful uncertainty. If trust isn’t about guarantees, maybe it’s about courage, the kind that lets us show up as we are, vulnerable but unbreakable. And if that’s not strength, if that’s not the truest kind of faith, then I don’t know what is.
Maybe that’s what faith truly is; not in others alone, but in the strength we find within ourselves to keep reaching out. So if you’re in that place where trust feels impossible, like a risk you’re not sure you can take, remember: trust doesn’t have to mean certainty. Maybe trust is just the courage to stand in the unknown, holding onto ourselves with the kind of love that makes us open, not closed off.
And if that isn’t the truest kind of strength, if that isn’t faith in its purest form, then maybe that’s exactly what faith was always meant to be.
Prayer Hotline.
I pray you don’t silence yourself anymore for the sake of peace.
I pray you say what you need to say and stand on it.
I pray you don’t lose yourself to hate.
I pray you hold space for yourself in a way that preserves you.
I pray you are prayed up like the mothers with the church hats stay prayed up.
I pray you find who you are at your core and accept yourself.
I pray you become your greatest supporter.
I pray you trust yourself.
I pray you trust in your ability to be the change you want to experience.
I pray you write your way out of those emotions keeping you chained down.
I pray you don’t let this election close your heart after you worked so hard.
I pray you accept and acknowledge who they are, but embrace who you are.
I pray you use the tools in your toolbox to build a new world.
Amen. Asé.
 | A guest post by
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 | A guest post by
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Thank you Sisters! Jacquie, that prayer is perfect. 🩵🙏🏽
The hotline was needed for the week ahead! 🙏🏾