Power of Spirit

Chapter 1: Icebergs

My childhood revolved around a sweet, yellow brick church. On Sunday mornings, I watched my mother and the sisters of the congregation tip-toe from their cars towards the building. The parking lot was covered with little grey and black pebbles. The gravel was dangerous for weak ankles and new Payless shoes. After years of hearing complaints, my grandfather and the elders finally decided to pave the parking lot. By this time I was in high school.

My friends were from church. The only place I went during the week outside of school, was church. Nevertheless, my weekends were often spent cleaning the church. I would help my grandmother refill those tiny communion cups with grape juice. I didn't mind. It was an upgrade from putting the hymnals back behind the pews.

That was my life. I never protested. Being agreeable and plump was on my marquee. I didn't command too much attention.

On the outside, nothing fancy. But my insides twirled. I talked to myself, secretly. Well the voice inside, talked to me. It would ask me questions or draw my attention to peculiar personal characteristics of family, friends and strangers. I wasn't schizophrenic. I was sure of that. My mother was a psychologist who loved to diagnose. I knew I didn't belong. I needed and wanted to be somewhere else.

I didn't quite know where I belonged, but my current situation wasn't it. As a teenager, my sentiments hadn't changed.

One 4th of July excitement ran through the house, tagging everyone on the shoulder, except for me. The voice whispered, "I don't belong here."

My indifferent mind figured I was unpatriotic in a racially hostile America. I was a black girl growing up in a the white South. It was true. Yet many years later, I would learn the voice was an iceberg. It was more beneath the surface. I was different.

Time slowed on. I forgot about the voice. Little waves of happiness would flow in and gently float out. Still I was humorous. People loved my company, yet I never got too attached. Maybe I was just cold-blooded, unfeeling or a closet introvert.

There was no attachment to people or things. I cared for the plight of others and myself, but I wasn't a dweller. You would never catch me sitting in a pot of ash, like the biblical Job.

Leaving home for college was all the same. I matured some. My focal point was still church. Every decision was done to avoid hell. If I sinned, I awaited my punishment. Sin was the cause of every complication.

One failed marriage and three visits to labor and delivery, I was back in my hometown looking for answers.

Returning to the south, brought the silent and sometimes blatant racism right back in my face. Tired and looking for refuge, I watched the documentary Hidden Colors. I was shocked to learn how great and powerful Africans were (and still are). Until then my only thoughts of Africa were slave ships and Kunta Kinte. The documentary sparked something inside of me. My research began. The voice came back. Stronger. My iceberg peeked from the waters. Calling for my attention. My world was starting to turn on a different axis. I was going one way. My family and friends still singing and praying in the pews.

The waters would give way. Little by little, I would soon see the depth of my iceberg.

I would learn my iceberg didn't consist of frozen water molecules. Lies made it densely gigantic.

The voice, whispered "Go deeper..."

Never could this church girl imagine what was to be discovered underneath those waters. It was getting hot! The iceberg was melting. Some would not survive.