Love's Saga

Loneliness curls around my mind’s heart like a vice to squeeze,

To punish.

To penalize me for every no that could have been yes.

For every choice that chose not to be an option when I deserve to be a priority.

Someone once told me that I am in love with being in love.

Enamored with the thought of being some man’s wife.

Each word was like the lash of a whip,

Stinging my flesh with truth.

If it is true that a hit dog will holler,

Then this bitch be wailing.

Screaming at the injustice of life and circumstance.

Railing in my mind’s heart against the love that I love who I have yet to meet.

Perhaps I am in love with being in love.

Enamored with being called wife and mother.

Perhaps I am waiting to be rescued even as I am rescuer.

Penalized more for a belief than for a choosing.

The belief that if I can have the desire’s of my heart,

And this is a desire that thrums and radiates throughout my being,

A compulsion like dwarves drawn to rings,

Then surely it must come to pass.

I mean it would be the cruelest of jokes for me to be who and what I am,

To desire who and what I desire.

To love who I love.

Cherish a belief and it never manifest.

I combat sinister loneliness with the truth that it is a lie.

That I am never alone, even when I am devoid of human touch.

Combat with the knowledge that if Love loved Adam enough to fit him with a mate,

Then surely his flawed ancestor is worthy of the same.

When tears inexplicably fill my throat, flood my eyes,

Build bridges of despair in my soul,

I am comforted.

Consoled by the knowledge that patience should have her perfect work.

That in the dispensation of the fullness of time I will be perfect for what God has for me,

Entire, complete and having no emptiness,

Wanting nothing.

I may need.

Need to be needed by him.

Need to smell him on my pillow.

I may need to see him across the table from me.

Need to hold his hand in mine.

Need him to be the bulwark that holds life at bay,

Even as I am his port in the storm.

But I want nothing.

My every wish is addressed, my desire granted.

This moment in time while I wait for him to become who he needs to be to be the one I need…

This space of life wherein I become who I need to be to become who he needs me to be,

Is but a season.

Soon all will align for his eyes to meet mine.

For us to both recognize that what we two have separately, is not nearly as wonderful,

As what we two could have together.

Love.
Pure, blissful, blessed, God anointed, love.

For that I’ll wait.

For the promise of him I’ll fight the vice wanting to crush  my mind’s heart and flood my throat with tears.

For that…

For him.

For the promise of his love nothing is too much.

No wait interminable, no pain too deep.

For this promise launched ships and razed castles.

This promised started wars and inspired peace.

For this cause man has sacrificed for eons of time.

For this cause woman has suffered penalty of death, at just the whisper of a possibility that love given would be love returned.

How then can I do less than to wait?

How then can I dishonor the legacy of love with the fallacy of lust?

I will wait for him, my promise.

For him will I wait.

When he comes, with purity of heart, joy of spirit,

We will celebrate.

With generosity of spirit, I will only make him suffer a little for my wait,

As the reality of his present presence obliterates past’s pain.

Making it as though it never were,

As sun pouring into a room that has been too long in the dark.

(c)Pamela Shropshire 2012

Angels Unaware

Tender hearted is what I’ve been called on more than one occasion.

Confusion mixed with gladness confounded me.

My heart’s mind sought to understand what that meant for the collective.

Once upon a time, Love loved me.

It mattered not how hard I ran, or how fast,

Love’s love was with me, embracing me,

Making me open my eyes and recognize that I am not alone.

Certainly not then.

Not now and not ever.

There was no blinding light shining down on me.

Nor was there any talking livestock or burning shrubbery.

What was sent were angelic helpers, unwittingly rendering a service of love.

What, then, is there to say about our brethren;

Those angels who in spite of my absolute misery loved me?

What is there to say about their purpose?

It is for us first to know, it is not their purpose, but our purpose.

It is one thing to say we are here to serve, quite another to recognize what that service is.

What moves and motivates a thought into action.

The various sets of circumstance that unite us.

Concern like the force of magnetism drawing us, one to another.

Charity cries out to us when we happen upon one another outside of the confines of the brick and mortar where we meet to worship.

The rush from the pit of our stomach that rises to course throughout our body,

That radiates in uncontainable waves of joy at just the sight of a fellow beloved.

In that moment, you realize that nothing else in this natural life matters;

All will be well because in a moment of absolute clarity, we know we are not alone.

We, ambassadors in a strange land; all warriors,

Will shore each other up.

We were sent for service.

Handpicked  for a duty revealed only to the chosen few, to be shared with the many.

Our purpose, we angels, is to be a beacon of light.

It is to show that in hopelessness, there is hope.

In futility, there is still another chance to be had.

And another, and yet another, in Christ who loved us.

Yet still not fully cognizant of what and who we are,

We fall short.

With so much hope and potential, the mark stays beyond our grasp.

We must realize, this fallibility is not so to defeat us, but to show humility.

To illustrate that we, none of us, are perfect and able to stand without God’s grace.

We are angels here to serve.

Not only each other, but those who are lonely of the light that shines in each of us.

To say that we must have is unity, is like saying we must breath.

It is both simple and extremely complex.

Our unity does not simply mean we love, but more that we must love to live.

For us, unity means that our actions must show forth the Love that first loved us.

Dissention within the community of our beloved is as devastating as ones immunity turning on them.

We are all here to support and uplift one another.

The moment we cease to do that;

The instant we forget the grace that opened our eyes and our hearts…

The moment our glory is tarnished and marred by the petty embellishments of mortal coil;

In the moment that we become less than the more we were called to be, something in us ceases to be.

It is not that grace forsakes us, for it never will.

It is more that when our eyes become full of the natural,

We can no longer behold the beauty of our hope.

We, angels unaware, must first wake up and become aware of all that we have.

We must come alive to the glory given,

The Love that first loved us all.

We, angels, saints of the living God, aware of the true mark of our calling,

Must then grow up.

Graduate from an elementary mindset to move on to what’s next.

Operation.

The time is now to operate in the duty, the calling for which we were all purposed.

The time is now for saints aware to embrace our adoption,

To embody love, faith and a giving spirit and serve.

The time, beloved, is now.

(c) Pamela Shropshire 2012

Madness

Apathetic empathy that should motivate and inspire mocks me.
No resolutions or solutions, just the proverbial binky to suckle.
Pacifying behaviors, disguising agendas, hidden like faces on Halloween.

Escape shrouded in futility, turning sunlight into darkest day.
Where is the hope that is implied via electronic boxes,
Connected to oblivious assholes, secretly secreting away the living of the masses?

Words dance like manic clowns in your head,
None of which can be spoken,
For tears wait like a spigot to be turned, filling your glass with angst ridden excuses disguised as reasons with no hope of resolution.

We cry in our head, for the frustration is heavy.
We wrack our brain for the problem wants solving.
A wise man once said, the solution to every problem is in the problem itself.

New questions beg like street urchins in a Middle Eastern marketplace.
What is the problem?
Truly, what is the problem?
What do we know?

Seats beg for bodies when passion is what's missing,
Transferred so sporadically no one truly gets their fill.
Heads are clouded with drugs that turn those manic clowns into a psychedelic nightmare that never ends,
Creating frenemies in the minds of the users.
Fear is a side dish, purchased with every meal; breakfast, lunch and dinner.

These are problems; where is the solution?

The answer is in the riddle and looking beyond the obvious is madness.
Madness like trying to solve an equation when you don't know the rules of the problem.
This is but the rule of life.
I want you to know.

With bated breath you wait because in your heart you're a fixer.
When life pushes you to give up, you say, "But I haven't tried this yet."
The answer is simple yet complex.

You can't save the world.

There. Done. Finis. End Game.
You can not save the world, and to believe otherwise is prideful madness.

Why?!
I hear your voice crying out before the sentence is closed.
I see the mutinous set of your jaw, the whirring of cogs in your brain.
You have one last plan, and how dare I say its over?

Dearly beloved friend,
You can not save the world simply because not everyone wants to be saved.
In my head Project Pat sings, Don't save them, they don't wanna be saved,
Even as your arm extends on one last rescue mission.

Rebellion glints like evil gold waiting to be mined in the brown of your eyes.
Your chest rises and falls with the beat of your heart.
Still reaching out, you cry,
I can save them all!

But alas no.
You aren't a super hero and Disney Pixar didn't write this life.
The will to rebel will flow like blood running from a million cuts, as the masses you try to save
Turn on you like rabid beasts.

The desire for "my way" mentalities will be the storm blowing away your plans,
Scattering them, forcing you back to the drawing board.
Time and frustrating time again.

Until finally you wake up and recognize that you can't plan in a tornado.
At some point you must seek shelter or the wind will blow you away.

While madness and mayhem flows around you, get to the eye of the storm.
Recognize that some things will be lost,
But that which is meant to remain, will stand.

Those people, places or things that are meant to see the light of tomorrow's day,
That which you can truly rely on and trust,
Will be saved to see you through the next storm.

All you have to do is take that one step.
Take it; I believe in you.

Hello. My name is Pam and I'm a fixer.
...
But I can't save the world.
Thank you.

Now, walk into your freedom.

(c) Pamela Shropshire 2012

Things That Piss Me Off #AndShiz #561

I don’t believe that I talk differently at any given point than normal, for the most part... Until I do. What’s wrong with differentiating the way I talk when I’m chilled out from when I’m doing my professional thing? I am told I sound like a white girl, constantly. This begs the question: What does a white girl sound like in comparison to any other female?

To clarify, I'm not talking accents I'm talking grammar. At some point enunciation and proper grammar became synonymous with one race and all other races became pretenders. I don’t believe I’m pretending when I enunciate and speak in a formal manner in my work setting. Truthfully, when I’m relaxing with friends, I relax my speech because I can. When I’m speaking with someone I should be more proper with, for example a client, I am. It’s no different than the difference between wearing business attire to a meeting and shorts to the beach; you dress for the occasion.

Likewise you speak for the occasion. That’s not fake, its wisdom. So why do people of all races believe otherwise? I'll answer that question with a question: Did you know that there are different versions of English for different races? There is black English which can refer to Black Creole for blacks of Caribbean or British descent or English for African Americans. An example of black english, is "case quarter".

I know what is meant when someone asks if I have a "case quarter", but in a recent poll I learned that quite a few of my caucasian friends did not. The ones who did said they knew because of their "diverse circle of friends". The term is derived from the use of "case dollar" which was used in the old days when dollars were coins that could be broken into bits. Like so many things that can be true of African Americans, including our diet, a portion of our vocabulary is derived from our times in slavery.

Who did African slaves interact with most? Their overseer and other low level employees. People of little or no education. Even in times of slavery and civil movement, well spoken African Americans were told they sound "white". Why can't a well spoken minority simply sound like someone with a full and diverse vocabulary?

There are studies for most non-native English speaking nationalities, which sparks an interesting thought; mostly because I'm argumentative. Who says we should be speaking the Queen's English? Technically the native language of these America's has changed with the power shift over time. We speak the language of the power structure. My point is, for this great melting pot where everyone speaks there own variation from a Brooklyn butcher to a Maine fisherman to, yes, the homeboy, who is to say what's right or wrong?

The maze further continues as more and more people adopt African American vernacular as their "relax" language. Ya heard me? I mean, do you understand me? It is the cool thing to speak like your favorite hip hop star, especially because music is everywhere. Life moves to the sound of whatever is blaring through your Beats spiked in from your iPod. Thanks to crossover artists, there is no genre that can be owned by any one race; it's all up for grabs.

Ijs, who says what is correct when it's all an adaptation? The English language is ever evolving, generation to generation. We lol more than we laugh out loud. Every other sentence is hash-tagged for #importance. Our life and our language is a trending topic.

My point is simply that speech is not locked to race. Everyone speaks their English. Some English is more acceptable in different situations, but none of it is "wrong". Trill? Trill.

Favor

I've been learning a lot about favor in the last couple of years. Favor is defined as an attitude of approval or liking. That definition is so tame for the outpouring of goodness that flows into you when you are favored. The amazing feeling you get when your know you've done absolutely nothing to gain the love and approval of someone. The act of favor is when you receive of someone their approval and support when you don't deserve it.

You should think about that; the verb of favor directed at you. The noun of favor, meaning that someone is looking at you with the identifier that you are favored. Favor is not something to take lightly or to be dismissed. True favor is a gift. Favor is not a passive emotion or something to be lightly said, "I favor..." Favor takes action on the part of the person bestowing it, and respect and honor on the part of the favored.

When you favor something or someone, you go an extra step for your favored. You move over for the favored because when you look at that person or thing, they hold a special meaning to you. There is something about that person or thing that even when you don't want to, even when you may feel betrayed, something inside of you pushes you towards forgiveness. Pushes you to show mercy and long suffering to the recipient of your favor.

When you are favored, you are not only honored to be the recipient of extraordinary liking, approval and support. When you receive favor, you also receive responsibility. A responsibility not to take your favor for granted. You are now responsible to recognize the favor you have received and treat it with prize and reverence. It is important to think on the favor. Not to think on why you're favored; favor is a gift, not something earned. Think how to best honor your gift. What can you do to to show respect to the bestower of favor.

This process starts by looking dep into "receive". To receive is to take delivery of. When favor is offered, you can receive or you can dismiss the gift given. To receive favor, you own the favor and all that comes with it. In order to receive, you must first "recognize". To recognize is to identify from knowledge of appearance or character. You must first identify favor by knowing the appearance and character of favor.

What is the appearance of favor? Look into instances in your life. The moment in life when something shouldn't have gone your way, but suddenly there was intervention. An intervention you didn't deserve or earn, but that was gifted to you. That is what favor looks like. Favor looks like a miracle. Favor is the Red Sea parting. Favor is the cop who was set on writing you a ticket and gave you a warning. Favor is all of those moments when you reached your edge, and intervention arrived on your behalf.

What is the character of favor? What is the distinctive quality of favor? What makes it special? The characters of favor are mercifulness. Favor shows mercy, not rewarding you what you deserve, but what you need. Favor is longsuffering, because you may not get the hint at first and may require more and more mercy. Favor is love, giving compassion and charity in the face of foolish humanity. Favor is forgiveness, because sometimes you do that which you would not and don't do what you would. Favor recognizes your flesh is weak and mercifully, forgives you, with long suffering, over and over again.

That's only a small portion of the characteristics of favor. Favor is ever evolving and ever growing. When you are able to recognize the favor directed at you, more character will display itself. Soon you'll wnat to be the benefactor of favor; you'll look for opportunities to show favor. When you taste the wonderfulness of favor, you'll crave it. When you are able to receognize favor, you'll walk in a fog of favor.

The other thing to know about favor is that your benefactor may use others to favor you. Whether they know it or not, people bestow acts of favor on you everyday. This is like second hand favor. The Champ, the Absolute King of Favor is none other than the King of Kings, the Great I Am. Our Heavenly Father. He is also the best at using people to favor you; when He does it, its like double favor and wonderful.

The danger of favor... Losing it. If you fail to recognize the gift of favor, you fail to honor and respect it, you are in danger of losing it. When I say not showing respect to favor, it is to feel  that you are entitled to the gifts given to you. When you show a lack of respect to the bestower of favor. All things in life require appreciation to survive. If favor is taken for granted it will eventually leave you.

I hope after reading this, you'll look for favor. Not only look to receive, but look for opportunities to show favor. There may be a person you favor, no matter what. Don't fight it. Exercising the fundamentals of favor, will make you a stronger, better, human being.

***Disclaimer*** Don't fight the desire to favor until or unless showing this person favor becomes detrimental to your health, because they are unable to recognize or appreciate you or your gift of favor.