Alun and I didn't sleep on Saturday night - someone a street away was having such a loud party that our walls and windows were shaking. The thumping of the bass was making our floorboards shudder. I dread to think how loud the music was in the actual house of whoever was throwing the 2AM party (Yes. 2 freaking AM!!! Who STARTS a party then?!?).
Alun and I shut the windows tight (making our room uncomfortably warm - our fan is broken) and both tried foam earplugs. Alun fell asleep eventually - but probably only an hour at most before his alarm went off, and I didn't sleep at all.
Every "thump" of their blasting music could be felt - shuddering us in bed as we tried to sleep.
In my present state of mind, I just jumped straight to hate and resentment.
How dare you keep us all awake tonight? Yes, I know it's Saturday but COME ON, NOW - it's 2 in the morning!!! This is ridiculous! I considered - again and again in my imagination - finding a few solid, steady bricks, walking to the house in question - and heaving them through the windows with all my might. I wouldn't even hide and throw them from a 'safe distance' - I'd stand close, with my feet shoulder-width apart (power stance! Yes!) and brazenly glare at the inhabitants when the window's glass shattered. I'd point a finger at them and with a steely gaze, I'd say: "You know why". Then I'd walk and not look back - like a cowboy or awesome gun slinger.
And there would be peace once again in Inglewood - and we could all finally get some sleep.
Instead though - I just laid there - seething - until well after Alun had gone to work, the sun had come up, the birds were making their usual racket outside and it seemed the world was awake and ready for the day. I was so angry and so tired, I was shaking.
I really needed that night's sleep.
I went outside to look at the back garden. I don't know. Since we've planted so many flowers, vegetables, fruits and herbs, the back garden has transformed from a dusty, bare desert to a little Oasis. I love it and I'm proud that Alun and I built it together. I smiled as I noticed more and more new shoots of grass popping up through the carefully mulched and fertilised soil. The wind blew softly across it all, making the flowers bob their pretty, coloured heads as if they were greeting me and saying "Good morning".
I felt so much better.
Taking deep breaths and breathing in mixed herbs and a gorgeous lemon scent from the lemon tree's new leaves - I resolved to go for a walk. The morning was still cool, it was only 8:00am and the MUSIC WAS STILL GOING so instead of staying inside and getting angry again, I'd just remove myself from the situation.
As I laced up my sneakers, I felt excited. I really enjoy a good walk and as the day wasn't too hot yet, it would be a lot of fun. I crossed the road outside our home (I like to walk towards oncoming traffic - it gives me a false sense of power thinking I at least know what's coming and that there aren't any surprises behind me) and put my earplugs in, selected my "Gym Hard" playlist and took off down our familiar (and very busy) street with purpose in my steps.
This is good for me
It's healthy.
It will release stress, tension and anger.
I love walking.
Our street looks beautiful and today's weather is particularly lovely. 28 degrees. That used to be my favourite until I moved to England for 8 years and got used to the colder weather. Now 28 degrees seems slightly too hot. My favourite degrees now is 22 degrees. Nice and cool but still sunny and bright. Perfect.
Anyway, I walked and walked, pushing myself to walk fast and to make myself sweat. That's what exercise is for, is it not?
This was fun :)
After about 40 minutes, I started getting tired. I slowed my pace to a leisurely walk and considered turning back because after all - it would take another 40 minutes to get to my front door from where I was - and that would be a long walk indeed.
But something inside me pressed on.
Just go a little further.
Just a little further.
Just to that next lamp post.
Just to that next bus stop...
...and before I knew it, it was an hour and 20 minutes later (including my original 40 minutes) and I was outside the front of my Church - nestled happily within the City Centre.
Woah.
I looked at my watch - Church starts in 10 minutes!
So I went in.
In the Sermon, Pastor Jeff preached especially about how unique each of us is - how special and precious we are to God. I honestly felt he was talking just to me. He said "I don't know if anyone out there will understand this, but I was always compared to my brothers and they were always better than me. It is hard coming up against such comparison...so it's important to remind ourselves who we are in God's eyes - not in the eyes of anyone else - and that sometimes includes our family"
OMG.
That was so what I needed to hear.
He then said "Comparison is the thief of Joy". I've read that somewhere - but in the Church seats as he said it, it seemed to boom inside of me. Rattle my bones and clutch at my heart.
I was sitting by myself - as I often do because I've not made any friends at this Church and come so intermittently, I actually prefer it that way - but I honestly felt as if God was speaking to me.
The voice of doubt in my head was almost shouting to be heard above the preaching. Depression, shame and guilt were fighting to rise above the hope the sermon was giving me.
God has his own son, you know. It reminded me. Just like your Dad has Jay. You are a bastard in the literal sense, Janet. You don't have a Father. No one wanted to claim you.
Oh.
This is true.
I don't know my heritage. I don't know where half of me comes from. I don't know what 'my people' are like - are they African? From Jamaica? Polynesia? Where??? Do I love R&B because it sounds amazing - or because my soul was meant to recognise it from the African American people who have weaved their history through the lyrics and the specialised music that is recognised as Rhythm and Blues?
Who am I and what am I made up of?
I felt my shoulders slumping.
The words "God has His own son" rang and echoed and seemed to bounce of the empty walls inside me. Hurting me. Cutting me. Breaking me apart.
I bit my lip.
Then something...miraculous happened.
Something wonderful.
I don't know if you'll believe me, but I believe God spoke right to me in the that moment.
And you know what? He said: "Yes, I have my own son, Janet - and I sent him to die for you. You are so important to me that I preferred you over him...that's how precious and cherished you are. I claim you. I'll be your heavenly Father and to me, you're worth diamonds"
And one by one, different scriptures from my Bible came up out of nowhere and demanded to be heard.
One of them talks about a mother hen hiding her chicks under her wing to protect them. Holding them close.
Another verse says that when God made me - when He made each of us - He was so happy, He sang over us. Isn't that beautiful?
I remembered the Prodigal son - who had taken his inheritance, squandered it (I can sooo relate. I'd spend all mine on food and makeup), then returned home just hoping to be a servant in his Dad's household. At least that way, he'd earn a wage and get some food.
The Bible says his Dad saw him from far away. It hints at his Dad not being surprised, because ever since the boy had left, his Dad looked for him. Missed him. Scanned the horizon with a hand over his forehead to block out the sun so he wouldn't miss seeing his son when he came up over the hill (okay, there probably wasn't a hill - but just go with me on this one). Then, that fateful day where he saw him. He recognised his son from afar and he ran to him. Once he reached his son, he kissed him. The Bible uses a Greek word for "kiss" that means "in plural - or "lots of" - so I imagine this man holding his son and kissing his face again and again. That's how happy he was to have his son home.
I know I'm a bastard, ok? I know. I don't know who my real Father is. I've spent my whole life with a huge hole in my heart and a question above my head that reads "Do I belong to anyone?"
I know the step-Dad I have now has done his best to raise me. I pray in my heart of hearts that his favouritism wasn't meant in malice - it was something he couldn't help. I know if I took his money, ran away and spent it all - then came back hoping he'd forgive me - that it could go either way, really.
The earthly Dad I have now - would forgive me, I think. But it would come at a price.
He definitely would NOT run to meet me, he'd stare me down as I walked with a heavy heart towards the front door. He might slap me or hit me. That's happened in the past. He might roar obscenities at me because he would be so angry with what I'd done.
But I think he'd eventually let me in. That's my hope, anyway.
But with God? With what and how I felt that morning as I sat in Church and tears of gratefulness ran down my face?
I think that if I ran away from Him (as crazy as that may be), God would keep an 'eye out for me' every single day. God would miss me. He'd grieve the loss of my presence, my stupid jokes, my happy bum wiggles, my incessant singing and questions and child-like curiosity. God would wait out for me every day until the sun went down and He wasn't able to look that far anymore. I think even then, He'd keep the outside light on for me. He'd shut the door but He wouldn't lock it, saying a prayer (Does GOD pray?) that I'm safe and that I'll come home soon. I think when I did decide to come back to Him - that God - the maker of everything - the be all and end all - would run to meet me. I think God would hold me tight and kiss my face repeatedly.
God thinks I'm a pretty big deal.
My friends do, too.
And finally, I'm coming to realise that that's enough for me.
Alun and I shut the windows tight (making our room uncomfortably warm - our fan is broken) and both tried foam earplugs. Alun fell asleep eventually - but probably only an hour at most before his alarm went off, and I didn't sleep at all.
Every "thump" of their blasting music could be felt - shuddering us in bed as we tried to sleep.
In my present state of mind, I just jumped straight to hate and resentment.
How dare you keep us all awake tonight? Yes, I know it's Saturday but COME ON, NOW - it's 2 in the morning!!! This is ridiculous! I considered - again and again in my imagination - finding a few solid, steady bricks, walking to the house in question - and heaving them through the windows with all my might. I wouldn't even hide and throw them from a 'safe distance' - I'd stand close, with my feet shoulder-width apart (power stance! Yes!) and brazenly glare at the inhabitants when the window's glass shattered. I'd point a finger at them and with a steely gaze, I'd say: "You know why". Then I'd walk and not look back - like a cowboy or awesome gun slinger.
And there would be peace once again in Inglewood - and we could all finally get some sleep.
Instead though - I just laid there - seething - until well after Alun had gone to work, the sun had come up, the birds were making their usual racket outside and it seemed the world was awake and ready for the day. I was so angry and so tired, I was shaking.
I really needed that night's sleep.
I went outside to look at the back garden. I don't know. Since we've planted so many flowers, vegetables, fruits and herbs, the back garden has transformed from a dusty, bare desert to a little Oasis. I love it and I'm proud that Alun and I built it together. I smiled as I noticed more and more new shoots of grass popping up through the carefully mulched and fertilised soil. The wind blew softly across it all, making the flowers bob their pretty, coloured heads as if they were greeting me and saying "Good morning".
I felt so much better.
Taking deep breaths and breathing in mixed herbs and a gorgeous lemon scent from the lemon tree's new leaves - I resolved to go for a walk. The morning was still cool, it was only 8:00am and the MUSIC WAS STILL GOING so instead of staying inside and getting angry again, I'd just remove myself from the situation.
As I laced up my sneakers, I felt excited. I really enjoy a good walk and as the day wasn't too hot yet, it would be a lot of fun. I crossed the road outside our home (I like to walk towards oncoming traffic - it gives me a false sense of power thinking I at least know what's coming and that there aren't any surprises behind me) and put my earplugs in, selected my "Gym Hard" playlist and took off down our familiar (and very busy) street with purpose in my steps.
This is good for me
It's healthy.
It will release stress, tension and anger.
I love walking.
Our street looks beautiful and today's weather is particularly lovely. 28 degrees. That used to be my favourite until I moved to England for 8 years and got used to the colder weather. Now 28 degrees seems slightly too hot. My favourite degrees now is 22 degrees. Nice and cool but still sunny and bright. Perfect.
Anyway, I walked and walked, pushing myself to walk fast and to make myself sweat. That's what exercise is for, is it not?
This was fun :)
After about 40 minutes, I started getting tired. I slowed my pace to a leisurely walk and considered turning back because after all - it would take another 40 minutes to get to my front door from where I was - and that would be a long walk indeed.
But something inside me pressed on.
Just go a little further.
Just a little further.
Just to that next lamp post.
Just to that next bus stop...
...and before I knew it, it was an hour and 20 minutes later (including my original 40 minutes) and I was outside the front of my Church - nestled happily within the City Centre.
Woah.
I looked at my watch - Church starts in 10 minutes!
So I went in.
In the Sermon, Pastor Jeff preached especially about how unique each of us is - how special and precious we are to God. I honestly felt he was talking just to me. He said "I don't know if anyone out there will understand this, but I was always compared to my brothers and they were always better than me. It is hard coming up against such comparison...so it's important to remind ourselves who we are in God's eyes - not in the eyes of anyone else - and that sometimes includes our family"
OMG.
That was so what I needed to hear.
He then said "Comparison is the thief of Joy". I've read that somewhere - but in the Church seats as he said it, it seemed to boom inside of me. Rattle my bones and clutch at my heart.
I was sitting by myself - as I often do because I've not made any friends at this Church and come so intermittently, I actually prefer it that way - but I honestly felt as if God was speaking to me.
The voice of doubt in my head was almost shouting to be heard above the preaching. Depression, shame and guilt were fighting to rise above the hope the sermon was giving me.
God has his own son, you know. It reminded me. Just like your Dad has Jay. You are a bastard in the literal sense, Janet. You don't have a Father. No one wanted to claim you.
Oh.
This is true.
I don't know my heritage. I don't know where half of me comes from. I don't know what 'my people' are like - are they African? From Jamaica? Polynesia? Where??? Do I love R&B because it sounds amazing - or because my soul was meant to recognise it from the African American people who have weaved their history through the lyrics and the specialised music that is recognised as Rhythm and Blues?
Who am I and what am I made up of?
I felt my shoulders slumping.
The words "God has His own son" rang and echoed and seemed to bounce of the empty walls inside me. Hurting me. Cutting me. Breaking me apart.
I bit my lip.
Then something...miraculous happened.
Something wonderful.
I don't know if you'll believe me, but I believe God spoke right to me in the that moment.
And you know what? He said: "Yes, I have my own son, Janet - and I sent him to die for you. You are so important to me that I preferred you over him...that's how precious and cherished you are. I claim you. I'll be your heavenly Father and to me, you're worth diamonds"
And one by one, different scriptures from my Bible came up out of nowhere and demanded to be heard.
One of them talks about a mother hen hiding her chicks under her wing to protect them. Holding them close.
Another verse says that when God made me - when He made each of us - He was so happy, He sang over us. Isn't that beautiful?
I remembered the Prodigal son - who had taken his inheritance, squandered it (I can sooo relate. I'd spend all mine on food and makeup), then returned home just hoping to be a servant in his Dad's household. At least that way, he'd earn a wage and get some food.
The Bible says his Dad saw him from far away. It hints at his Dad not being surprised, because ever since the boy had left, his Dad looked for him. Missed him. Scanned the horizon with a hand over his forehead to block out the sun so he wouldn't miss seeing his son when he came up over the hill (okay, there probably wasn't a hill - but just go with me on this one). Then, that fateful day where he saw him. He recognised his son from afar and he ran to him. Once he reached his son, he kissed him. The Bible uses a Greek word for "kiss" that means "in plural - or "lots of" - so I imagine this man holding his son and kissing his face again and again. That's how happy he was to have his son home.
I know I'm a bastard, ok? I know. I don't know who my real Father is. I've spent my whole life with a huge hole in my heart and a question above my head that reads "Do I belong to anyone?"
I know the step-Dad I have now has done his best to raise me. I pray in my heart of hearts that his favouritism wasn't meant in malice - it was something he couldn't help. I know if I took his money, ran away and spent it all - then came back hoping he'd forgive me - that it could go either way, really.
The earthly Dad I have now - would forgive me, I think. But it would come at a price.
He definitely would NOT run to meet me, he'd stare me down as I walked with a heavy heart towards the front door. He might slap me or hit me. That's happened in the past. He might roar obscenities at me because he would be so angry with what I'd done.
But I think he'd eventually let me in. That's my hope, anyway.
But with God? With what and how I felt that morning as I sat in Church and tears of gratefulness ran down my face?
I think that if I ran away from Him (as crazy as that may be), God would keep an 'eye out for me' every single day. God would miss me. He'd grieve the loss of my presence, my stupid jokes, my happy bum wiggles, my incessant singing and questions and child-like curiosity. God would wait out for me every day until the sun went down and He wasn't able to look that far anymore. I think even then, He'd keep the outside light on for me. He'd shut the door but He wouldn't lock it, saying a prayer (Does GOD pray?) that I'm safe and that I'll come home soon. I think when I did decide to come back to Him - that God - the maker of everything - the be all and end all - would run to meet me. I think God would hold me tight and kiss my face repeatedly.
God thinks I'm a pretty big deal.
My friends do, too.
And finally, I'm coming to realise that that's enough for me.
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