Professional photo credit: Makenzie Verbout Photography

Today officially marks three months since I started my new job. My title is Director of Religious Education and I have the joy of overseeing the Protestant Children's Ministry and programs at my church. I have been hesitant to broadcast it since it’s all pretty new and I’m essentially building something from scratch and, truth be told, any mention of active (read: professional) involvement in Religious spaces beckons an extra level of scrutiny and attention to the details of my life, one that I hesitate to invite.

I’ll start with the beginning since that can’t hurt.

I believe in a Higher Power and I refer to that Higher Power as The Almighty God. I identify with the Christian Faith and as such I consider myself a Disciple of Christ.

My journey and decision to follow Christ started at a very young age.

IN THE BEGINNING

I’ll never forget one Sunday when my family and i were living in Savannah, GA. I was probably 5 or 6. I don’t remember the time of year but I do remember getting dressed up and ready for Church. This was somewhat atypical because my family, we didn’t go to church. At that point in my life, we probably went to church on Christmas and Easter, but truth be told, I really don’t ever remember going to church on Christmas because I was busy opening gifts. As for Easter, I remember dying eggs in my kitchen and hunting for the plastic eggs in the apartment but I also remember getting a new dress and my mom hot combing my hair, so we likely went to church on Easter. I grew up in a mixed faith household where my mom was probably more of an agnostic than a self-professed Christian. Her grandmother, a praying woman and active church member, took my mom, aunt and uncle to Peace Baptist Church on Sundays, but my mom didn’t continue that tradition into adulthood. Sure she had gotten baptized at a young age and knew about God and Jesus but we didn’t really go to church and I don’t ever remember her talking much about God and any faith for that matter.

My dad was an atheist so he definitely didn’t promote going to church. He might have attended one or two services, again, Easter, but I’m forcing a memory that I can’t really confirm. Suffice it to say, I didn’t grow up in what some would consider a religious household.

So, that one Sunday, when I woke up and got dressed for church, I’m sure my mom looked at m like I was silly. This memory is from 27 years ago, so the details are a bit cloudy. But I know I was disappointed when, after I had gotten dressed and ready to head out to church, my mom said “not today”.

Now, given the facts, we didn’t really go to church, my dad was an atheist and my mom more an agnostic, you might think it strange that I wanted to go to church. I won’t lie, I do too. For years, I’ve tried to piece together why I was so adamant about going to church. My mom tells me that I would whine and almost throw a tantrum. My only explanation points to two possible answers.

The first dates back to summers hanging out with my granny. Growing up, before my family and i would move to all over and eventually relocate to Germany, I would spend summers with my mom’s mom. Every summer for maybe 3 years in a row, we drove from Savannah, GA to Birmingham, Alabama where my family would look after me.

Now, my granny wasn’t always in the church. But every now and then, we’d make our way from 721 Omega Street to Peace Baptist Church, which for years I thought was Peach Baptist Church. It was an older Black Church with older members. It smelled of aged wood, mothballs and stale air. I’m sure I went to Sunday School or Children’s Church, in fact I remember sitting with my granny for an adult Sunday school lesson once. But the memory that stands out the most for me is these two older older women, mothers of the church. One was very fair skinned, so fair I thought she might have been white the other was darker, closer to my complexion, and they both would kiss my cheeks, call me “sugah” and give me a piece of candy. That little endearing act does something to a child, especially a child with a sweet tooth! I don’t really remember either of their names and they’ve since “gone to glory” as we say in the Southern Church Tradition, but I remember the experience.

While it’s sweet and innocent that a child would remember candy and kisses from the church grandmothers, I can’t necessarily suggest that my interest in church came from those two ladies. I agree that they were curious to me, but it’s not really enough for me to say that the only reason I really wanted to go back to church was because I missed the two ladies and their peppermints.

A PRAYING GRANDMOTHER AND MOTHER

So the other reason I have is based on the actions of a woman I never met, but whose memory always brings tears to my eyes and a sense of pride in her legacy. Ms. Myrtle McDowell of Enterprise Alabama couldn’t have children of her own. So one day, after doting on what she thought was the most precious baby, she found herself the surrogate mother of said baby. That baby was a newborn and she happened to be my grandmother. They say Grandma McDowell was a God-fearing woman and dedicated member of her church. She was hired help, cleaning houses of white people, but even after a long day of work where she would catch buses and walk miles until she wore holes in the soles of her shoes, she would still find energy to love on her grandchildren, bake a cake or two for the church and pray.

They say Grandma McDowell was a praying woman, a praying grandmother. There’s a powerful song by a Helen Baylor who declares the power of prayer and the grandmother whose petitions kept and protected her despite her trials and tribulations. That can be said of my late great grandmother who was known to lay prostrate on the floor in her house and she prayed without ceasing. And my mom said that Grandma McDowell would pray for her daughter, her grandchildren, her grandchildren’s children and grandchildren. She prayed for the generations to come and the beauty of it all is that these weren’t her biological children. She adopted my grandmother but loved her as her own flesh and blood, loved her grandchildren and the great grandchildren that she would never meet as her own flesh and blood, and prayed a prayer of protection, guidance, salvation and freedom. I’m sure she even prayed that we wouldn’t have to be hired help or face the pain of assault and abuse for our race, gender, class, etc.

I believe that those prayers contributed to this unknown spark or desire to go to church, to do something that I barely ever did and that, given my parent’s, would be silly to expect. Yet, I persisted.

Some years later, after we moved to Germany, my life shifted. My mom, through a series of events, opened her Bible. She had a spiritual awakening, a breakdown. Her soul cried out and she would sit at the dinner table pouring over the words of her Bible, journaling, praying, crying. I was 11 at the time and by that point, while I knew I wanted to go to church, my mother’s bizarre behavior freaked me out. She didn’t do anything manic or depressive. She didn’t say anything horrible or abusive. She was just…different. I could sense it and see it and part of me rejected the abrupt changes, yet part of me knew that it was a good thing, so I observed her. I watched and eventually we started attending the Chapel service at the base in Giessen Germany. By then I had a 3 year old sister and found myself in this new country and environment.

INTERNATIONAL HOUSE OF PRAYER

One of the first times we went to church, we attended what was known as the Protestant service. The pastor was a gentleman from Far East Asia and he had a thick accent. My mom, frustrated that she couldn’t follow the sermon, decided that she had done her part and was not going back. I, because I always felt pity or empathy (depending on the day), admonished my mom to try again. She did and we went back. Somehow she found out about the Gospel Service, was really meant predominantly Black congregation, and she plugged in. I was in the choir, did a dance routine for the Christmas service. I remember the pre-teen discussions where we would ask our group leaders deep questions about faith, belief, religion, etc. All of this was happening and I couldn’t tell you why, but I wanted more and it stuck to me. When I turned 12 I dedicated my life to Christ accepting Him into my heart as we say and inherited the identity of a Christian.

Now, in the midst of all of this, I distinctly remember debating my dad about religion. There were two specific occasions that I’ll never forget. One took place in our kitchen, the other on a dark poorly lit German highway after leaving one of my mom’s concerts with her Gospel Group. On both occasions, my dad grilled me about my decision to believe in God, who is God, how I knew He existed, suffering, sin, death, the Devil, Jesus and why I chose to believe that anything existed at all. My dad had lived possibly 30 years of his life not really believing in God and there I was, a 12 year old thinking nothing of the fact that I’m debating my dad. I don’t say that to brag. I say that because for some reason, I was of such sound mind that I didn’t mind defending my faith, even if it meant engaging in a healthy disagreement with the man who ironically put the Fear of God in me. My dad’s biggest concern was that I would be “closed minded” and operate with “tunnel-vision” and so, while he couldn’t change my mom’s decision to rededicate her life to Christ or return to the faith of her childhood, he would do what he could to “save me”.

FULL CIRCLE

Over the course of my life, I’ve wavered in my faith. Had doubts, questions, challenged God and the doctrine which I declare to be my foundation. I’ve sought answers to the many gaps in knowledge that I have and explored other faith traditions for fear that I was living a lie. I doubt there’s an honest Christian that hasn’t considered these things or that haven’t had such experiences. I’ve served as a youth leader in a high school student ministry, co-founded a women’s ministry at my college campus (shout out to Esther's Circle), and toyed with the idea of being a Christian Spoken Word or Hip Hop artist and or ordained minister. But nothing could have convinced me that, 20 years after dedicating my life to Christ in a little Military Chapel in Europe, I would find myself working as the person responsible for establishing a solid foundation and ushering in a legacy for the children of a different Military Chapel community in Europe.

It’s funny how God works.

I didn’t see it coming, it wasn’t really in my plans and truth be told, even though I hinted at working for the church when we moved to Bahrain, I played a game of tug of war for this opportunity.

Can I be honest? Of course I can, it’s my blog. While no one forced me to apply for the position and no one pressured me into considering the role, you would have thought that indeed was the case.

My husband, friends and family can tell you that on numerous occasions I expressed concerns about operating in a religious environment. Despite my background and faith, I worried that I would have to censor myself. That I would have to put on airs and sugar coat my positions and social commentary to keep people comfortable around me. They could tell you that I worried about being a woman in a male dominated space. That, while I knew God could speak to and through women, as evident in my college ministry journey and other experiences, I would have to combat this belief that women are to be seen and not heard, not take up too much space, and God forbid we are too spiritually sound or not nice enough to “fill in whatever workplace gender bias there is against women”.

Yet, I couldn’t shake this unction to submit my paperwork. Even when health conditions and external opportunities resurfaced and I considered whether it was a sign to fold and walk away or to persist.

So, I did it. I went through the seemingly arduous process of learning the world of government contracts and put my package together, submitting it on time. The funny thing about it all is that, the day I first heard about the opportunity back in Spring of 2017, I reached out to one of the pastors. I remember having a conversation with him and then being on the fence since, in my head, I probably didn’t “fit the description of the position.” In other words, I couldn’t help but wonder who would hire a childless black woman with locs to teach the children about Jesus. And let’s be real, when I look at most popular church websites, while I usually see women in the role for children’s ministry, rarely if ever do I see black women. The funny thing is, up until this point, I never let that distract me. If anything, it was motivation to apply, to challenge the status quo and let people know that not only did women and people of color have brilliant ideas that should be welcomed, but that we belonged for the same reasons that those historically in power did. While many people will say that they, “don’t see color,” and that “Jesus loves the little children…red, yellow, black, and white” it’s been proven time and again that predominantly white church settings lag in their awareness and encouragement of diverse congregation and dare I say church leadership (exhibit a, exhibit b, exhibit c). Many black and brown people attest to feeling ignored, pushed out or tokenized on the church roster and the struggle is real.

While my goal is not to lead a revolution or rock the boat, I do know that my presence alone is a shift for some who might regularly attend racially, socially and culturally homogenous worship settings back in the States. By God’s grace I’ve attended and been involved in the chapel community long enough to establish relationships and rapport, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t go into my role with two sets of ears, eyes and that good ole double, or possibly triple consciousness that comes with being a woman of color in a military setting with a historically white male leadership (shall we pull out the old rosters and photo albums of the church so we can tally up the numbers?).

L.E.G.A.C.Y.

But beyond the spiritual identity development of this black woman (a nod to my college thesis), I am really excited about my role and what it involves. I never would have thought that I would be in this setting, giving back and paying it forward in the very environment where my spiritual foundations were laid. Who knows where this may lead. All I know is where this places me and I’m grateful that My Creator is ordering my steps as I work to lead, equip and guide active christian youth (L.E.G.A.C.Y.).

WOMAN OF FAITH