Well, it’s two days away from the Harlem Book Fair and I’m beset with a mix of expectancy (expecting 50,000 people), dread (it’s supposed to be Africa hot out there) and doubt (little gremlin at the back of my head has been working overtime today, “Who wants to read your stuff anyways? There’ll be real authors there!” (Now this is the part where y’all fly immediately to your email client of choice and email me reassurances that I’m the next Nora Zeale Thurston, or the next E. Lynn Garris or the next Walter Bosely… LOL).
Oh and did I mention the best part? I’ll be sleeping over at the ex’s apartment where my daughter is currently staying for the summer and he will also have his daughter for the weekend. I’m not even there yet and I have had a headache trying to think of the easiest way to make this weekend work out positively.
I keep reminding myself that I have grown and as such I can do this and old triggers will not work with me. But even as I type my cell phone is blaring and guess who’s on the other end? The ex to belabor the point of what we’ve discussed repeatedly which he will proceed to get wrong anyways … so I think I’ll pass on the pickup right now.
I know, I know… just when I had y’all thinking I had my stuff together… I go ahead and prove that I’m as messed up as the rest of the planet. LOL.
This is why I write creative non-fiction. With my life … who needs to imagine stuff?
Seriously though, I know myself and honestly … the ex is not the problem and never has been. As anal as the ex can be–this angst is about my finally having come to the point of realizing a dream that’s been twenty-four years in the making.
A dream that I’ve wanted so much that I’ve deferred it, even went so far as to forget it. At first because of fear of failure, then as I began to realize the possibilities–for fear of success. You see, I’ve always had something or someone to blame: my work, the ex, my mom, my daughter, abuse, bipolar disorder, migraines, church people and even … God.
One by one, God has done away with every excuse I’d carefully compiled and now the ball is in my court and as if I hear the words directed at me as had been directed at his disciples, “Who men say that I am?”
A question to which I have answered by rote, “Jehovah Jireh, my provider”.
And then He asked, “Who do you say I am?”
A question to which I have answered by rote, “Jehovah Jireh, my provider”. In the silence, which I take for dissatisfaction with my answer. I am forced to pause and think about it… Okay, who are You … really?
The one who saved me from myself;
The one who loved me when I didn’t love myself;
The one who died so that I could live forever;
The one who understands when I cry out in the dead of night;
The one I take for granted–the Christ, the Son of the living God.
As He said to Peter, “Flesh and blood has not told you this but my father has revealed this to you. “
To which I answer–“So true.”
But you know what? Knowing the answer and living the answer are two different things and I find myself, more often than not lately, being called out–by my very own self to follow through or act upon, if you will–what I say I believe, what I know.
Then I’m forced to go a step further to consider … what do my words and actions say that I know about God?
So now what it boils down to is … am I going to give in to the fear of success that I’ve allowed to plague my life or am I going to trust and act upon God’s word that says “I know the plans I have for you, plans to prosper you, give you hope and a new future?”