I sat alone in a
darkened room, swimming in an emotional pool of despair; I cried a lot and
prayed often. And yet the more I surrendered my heart to the Creator, I felt a
huge disconnect. Riddled in sorrow, I tried to think positive like envisioning
my children’s their lovely faces. For a moment, it almost worked. But the
depression was too great. I couldn’t even crack a smile. The murkiness had
fallen deep into my soul. And my children – my three wonderful blessings – I
felt they were better off. I was ready to give up.
I leaned back against
the chair of where I sat and strangely thought of my silk scarf I had tied to my
head. My life was in such chaos back then, I rarely had taken it off. The scarf
symbolized a shield against the status quo – your hair equates beauty. But for
me, I didn’t give a rats-behind about being “prettied”. I ballooned to two
hundred fifty pounds on a five-feet-two inch frame. Depression and I didn’t
care. We didn’t care about the latest styles or extreme makeovers; we just
wanted to be withdrawn with our own pitiful thoughts, hoping those thoughts would get the best of us.
I knew for certain
I wanted to end it. My tears were apparent like April showers, and one by one
they were cascading into a tailspin. I couldn’t bear it any longer; I had to
call His name. He known for weeks how worse I became. He’d heard my prayers
over and over again and yet nothing. I was fat and broke with an uncertain
future at the age of thirty-nine. As old folks would say, I didn’t have a pot
to piss in.
Then I said it – I
looked to the ceiling as if I could see His face, grimacing in anger as I with began
with the why’s and then how’s, and threw in some whatif’s. I even had the nerve
to point to make sure He understood my argument. The anger was only the
beginning: I was pissed. I clenched my jaws, murmuring one word after another
as I continued my rant. Then I’d taken the gripe to another level. So much so,
it shocked me to the point I knew I couldn’t take it back. “Just take me Lord…right
now!” I fought through the tears. “Why am I here? I feel as if I’m just an
accident. Lord, just take me. I don’t care how, just take me away. I’m a living
a life with no purpose”.
I then fell into
silence, waiting and waiting and waiting – waiting in anticipation for my final
hours, waiting to fade to black, just waiting. So while I continued to wait, I received
a call but not on my cell phone, on the landline phone two rooms away. I rolled
my eyes at the mere disturbance, knowing I had to leave the comforts of my darkness.
But as soon as I said hello, a soft-spoken voice emerged from the receiver. It
was my mother. “Are you okay?” she asked.
I rolled my eyes
and lied. “Yes, why do you ask?”
She said was
overcome with a strange feeling to call me as my face suddenly appeared in her
mind. My eyes then widened with the fear of God. I peered to ceiling, wondering
if it was possible. Did He nudged momma’s spirit or just a simple coincidence? She
then rambled on her queries, while I pretended everything was hokey-dorie. I
mean I had to. My mother lived on the other side of town with my sister
bedridden with Multiple Sclerosis. There was nothing she could do, or at least
that’s what I thought.
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I returned to the darkened room after the phone
call to gaze at the ceiling in stun silence. Although my tears were no more, the
pain remained but this time I sat in solitude – pondering if my mother’s phone
call was perfect timing or Divine intervention. My questions were answered a
year and three months later, however. After I made an about-face with my life
by losing weight and starting my writing career, my mother died suddenly on a
warm June afternoon. Here I was on the
verge of becoming a first-time author – a direction she encouraged for me to
take – and she was gone just like that.
We take many
things for granted, but one thing we do especially take is time. We all had
complained it moves slowly or there’s never enough. But time can be a
merciless, unkind friend, especially saying those final goodbyes. My
opportunity to thank her for that fateful day had never occurred. My second
chance will happen many years from now – many, many years from now. I have too
much to live for because I understand my purpose. And because of my mother, I
see it in vivid colors.
God knew exactly
what He was doing the moment when I wallowed in that darkened room. He knew of
my request before I opened my mouth; and He knew the right person to save me. It
was because of her, I realize heroines aren’t all ways perfect. They have flaws
and yet still wanting to save hurt souls.
It’s a gift that many don’t realize. Unbeknownst to my mother, she
definitely had it.
©Imani Wisdom,
2014
Pink Noire Publications
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