Broken

I am so broken by the death of George Floyd that I can hardly watch the video. The agony in his voice, the white officer’s knee on his neck while his hand was in his pocket, the images of the other officers standing, watching in silence, breaks my heart.

I am broken by the silence. It’s deafening. I do not understand it. Perhaps it’s because they don’t have three little black boys like I do. Perhaps it’s because they don’t have a black husband like I do. Perhaps they do not have to experience the grief, the anger, the rage when we see, when we hear the words, “I can’t breathe.”

I am too broken to have “the talk” with my sons. I am horrified at the fact that I will shatter their safety, their dreams and hopes, as they look at me confused and bewildered that this is the reality of where we are. That we are STILL fighting to be accepted and treated equally. My heart breaks. My tears overwhelm me. My enemies mock me and ask “Where is your God?”

I am broken because with each of my boys, I did not have an easy pregnancy. With each of my boys, I had to inject myself with medicine to aid my body in carrying to full term. The horrendous pain that I experienced injecting in the same place twice a day for 9 months. While everyone else took pictures of their beautiful bellies, I stayed covered, protecting the black, dark, lumpy spots on my stomach from my daily injections.

I am broken because I cried and I emptied out my soul when I miscarried 3 times before. I cringe when people say “You’re too old” or “Why did you wait so late in life to have children?” The prayers my husband and I prayed together. The prayers that we prayed separately before each pregnancy, during the pregnancy and through the delivery of our babies. So thankful that God heard us and blessed us with such beautiful souls.

I am broken because in 2016, during another attack of black men being murdered, my Bishop called for the men along with their sons to go down to the altar to be covered in prayer to bond and cry out to God for each other, together. The image of my husband and my sons walking down towards the altar, jolted me into releasing a loud wail. I can recall the nurse and usher coming to my aide because I was about 6 months pregnant. I told them nothing, but they knew that my deep cry came from a place of pain. They tried to console me. They said, “They will be alright.” I cried unto the Lord with a loud cry. I didn’t care who was around. I didn’t care who heard me. All that I knew, was that I needed to let it out. It broke my heart.

I am broken because when people say “Oh you’re an educator, you can have your summers off and send your kids to camp!” While I understand the need for rest, that’s never been what I am about. My boys are my gift from God. A gift that I will cherish. The time that I spend with them is so precious. I will not take it for granted. I will embrace every hug, kiss, hand holding moment until they feel they are too old to do it. I will play superheros, wrestling, and watch every ninja movie that they want to. I will love them with my whole heart.

I am broken by what’s happening in our world. I am broken because black folks have been on this journey far too long. And although I may feel this way, I will not be silent. I will not lose hope in the Lord. He is my strength. He is the lifter of my head. When my heart is overwhelmed, lead me to the rock that is higher than I.