Covenants with charlatans, witch doctors, healers. Other supposed lovers and brothers. Sisters with cupped ears. Still drawing from the well alone
Promises broken. Spirit torn. Heart pounded to dust. Body begging to become ashes
Penniless, pointless, purposeless
Dragging the contents of her belly through the dust deemed for the devil, perfected by the devil, designed by the devil.
Decided. Determined. Devoted. Above the crush of sandals Amongst the unwashed and unchanged delivering unclean verdicts
She heard of One in need of one who would find virtue in just one Hope, Healing, Whole . A touch to be touched to release the touched to touch the untouched.
When I describe my baby sis in her formative years, mean is not quite my word. Mine was always stout. Even in the few years, I was taller than her (we switched places when I was 15 and she was 8), she just seemed stout. Feet always planted solidly. Always ready to do battle. Stubborn and determined to have her way.
I have come to know over 47 years that her stance was a defense mechanism designed to cover pain, fear, and rejection. Great effort to reveal her layers gave a bird’s eye view of someone kind, giving and comical….albeit mainly with strangers and outsiders. There is safety in relationships with people who can’t bruise your heart.
My first fight with, over and for my baby sis came all on the same day! Incredibly while she was still in utero. I think I was the one who branded her for life or at least set it in motion.
I was 8 going on 9, and though separated from my mom during the school year, I would spend summers with her at the house of horrors on 28th. I called it that because there were mostly ratcheted kids in the neighborhood. Country kids like me didn’t understand city kids. Then also because of the “vision” issues my stepparent had. He couldn’t clearly distinguish between my mother and her vulnerable daughters.
That particular summer day, I was bored enough to join in a round of jump rope with some neighborhood weird girls. All was in fun until my mistep stopped the rope. Apparently, the 8th deadly sin to preteen girls.
The toughest of the bunch ( who ironically later became my ex-sister-in-law) started the taunts in rhythm. “Ya mama is a ho. He ain’t yo daddy though. She good and pregnant now and you got to go”
My country bumpkin ignorance was showing. I was not sure which part to be upset about.
I knew that man wasn’t my daddy. I was still waiting for mine to manifest and rescue me like in the little Orphan Annie movies.
The “ho” part didn’t phase me because I had heard him call her that a gazillion times. He had called my older sister this. He had called me that. I only realized it was something wrong when he bestowed the moniker on my grandmother, and I watched her turn her back, never to return, to 1616 N. 28th Street.
It was the “she’s good and pregnant now and you got to go” part that gave me the strength to overcome the bully. I was blinded in rage. I didn’t know why. But the word felt nasty. Demeaning. Evil.
I had no clue where babies came from. Well meaning but fearful elders had surmised that keeping a young, physically overdeveloped girl ignorant would somehow spare her. Worked until I realized in my 9th grade biology class what the weird butterflies in my stomach were.
But back to Nessa and the fight of the century. She still has the barely noticeable scar on her chin from my weapon of choice. A rock from the gravel parking lot of the bus dock across from the house
Snitches brought the adults in to pull us apart. 2 bloody she-gladiators determined to win. I was too angry to take the score, and she, too embarrassed that the runt of the litter had bested her.
I had some regrets that day. Her alcoholic mother stormed out of the house and gave her a public beating that I didn’t wish for. There is a shame in being overcome by a little one.
And mine. Silently took me home, cleaned me up, and never uttered a word. No questions. No answers. Summer would end soon, and I would be safely back in my country school forgetting.
But my mother had betrayed me. I would not be going to 28th for Christmas break. She needed 6 weeks for the stork to finish. Like that was a good explanation to a confused child. All I could remember was the last of the taunt “and you got to go”
12/12/78 brought a stout 12 pounder with her fist up in her first baby mug shot.
Easter break would come before I met Stout. Only then would I see Nessa again. In Mike’s corner store, I bought Apple Uglies for my mom and offered my nemesis one as an apology. It would be some 25 years later that she admitted she didn’t know where babies came from that day either.
Today I did a thing I am quite proud of. I pushed past my fear of webs and spiders and other creepy things and spent an exhausting amount of hours cleaning and tossing out stuff in the garage.
Tired,sore, itchy and most likely washing my hair for several days, but it feels good to decide what goes, what stays, and what’s going to be sold to the highest bidder.
This day was this kind of work…. in the natural and in my spirit. Going beyond the fears, doubts, and physical limitations to see what I am really made of. Decluttering and releasing that which no longer serves a purpose to me. Finding strength and courage to let go.
The closets and things hiding in the shadows are next. 22 years of junk and 56 years of secrets and faith killers being exposed.
My day was also my day most terrified, but yet day most determined.
2500 people on a hot summer night watching me pour out my soul on the stage of the Dogwood Dell. An outdoor venue. Hot and perfuming ironically with a bug spray aptly entitled “Off.”
5 minutes was all the stage time I got . 5 minutes of feeling all my 55 years and display and figuratively, naked.. An original piece that I prayed most will never understand. The musings of a sad little clown reclaiming her share of joy
. I made some laugh and made some cry. Some applauded. Some politely attentive wondering what the imagery in my word salad was all about. One in particular showed up to mock me and hope that I would fail. In a moment of fear, I tripped, but I did not fall in my moment of truth and freedom.
But I prevailed alone on that mic in a hot bubble of a spotlight. Speaking in veiled colors about differences, disabilities, challenges, hurt, loves lost, death but also reclaiming my right to be seen, heard, treated kindly, honored and never again to be defeated by my past.
A deafening round of applause at the final bow was nothing compared to the rhythm of a heart beat corrected to believe….. no, corrected to know that I am worthy
After my very good doctor’s appt today, my husband & I went to a restaurant a bit out of our way, but I insisted because I wanted to see my fav waitress, Theresa Ann Hatch . Long story short, a couple from Columbus, Ohio were also drawn to detour and find Satterwhites. After they left, Theresa tells us that the gentleman said God told him to pay for our meal. When I ran out to find them in the parking lot he says she wasn’t supposed to tell me but since I was there……..he read all the mail in my heart from all the letters I have ever written to God. Had me crying in the parking lot. Talked my hearts desires and my need for rest and that God doesn’t expect a minster like me to try to rescue the whole world but do my part. He also said I need to get in my head how much God loves me and not just in a generic sense.
He never gave me a chance to say a word, so everything he said was 100% from God. They held on to me, and it brought a peace that I can not describe. Oddly my eyes were still dilated from my retina appt so I couldn’t get a grasp of what they looked like, just that they had a glow about them that wasn’t hurting my eyes like the sun does when your eyes are dilated. I don’t know if God will allow me to see them again in this life as they were just passing through, but My God, My God, I believe I entertained angels.
When a situation births the twins of joy and pain, it makes me feel schizophrenic.
My go-to response is to clean the kitchen and bake something new. Mess up what I just fixed with goodies I will never eat. Provide delight to others while I’m screaming inside. Ministering sweets to others when I need a taste for myself.
My current loss is another’s gain. I feel quite selfish in wanting to hold on to someone who I am happy is finally free.
I know. I know. It is not the end of all things. We will meet again, at some junction, some highway, under some rainbow.
She liked to say I put my “foot in that!”. Naw gurl! It’s smiles and tears.
It was one of the oddest days of my life. Was sitting at my desk frozen when I got the call from my hometown, sherrif. My brain went into autopilot, and I kept trying to work with tears streaming down my face. My then boss had to force me to breathe and go home. The love my co-workers showed was unmatched. Could not have made it through the coming days and the funeral without them.
He was a complicated man that I did not get to know until he was an old man in need of redemption and forgiveness. In the beginning, I was an abandoned child, looking for answers, who only served him out of obedience to my God, and the Word said to honor thy father. In the end, I became the child thru whom he wanted to give answers and ask forgiveness from his other children thru.
We didn’t have time to become father/daughter in the traditional sense. What we did have was card games, sweet potato pies, road trips, old Navy stories, testaments of the grandparents I didn’t get to meet, and a soft spot for healing to begin. He became my Pop, and I became his church mother. LOL and inside joke between us.
I figure sometimes that I was the “Moses” baby. … shipped off with no knowledge of him…so I could return and become a path to his need for freedom. Though I 💯 validate it, I am blessed to never quite have known the anger my sisters and brothers felt for him. I suppose my heart was kept in reserve for the old man and young child of God he would become.
Still missing you, Pop. I thank you for the gift of the crazy brood of sisters and brothers I inherited 9 years ago.
I hope amongst the milk and honey that there is strong coffee and sweet potato pie!!
Edgar Jerome “Jerry” Franklin-Bradshaw March 1, 1944 – February 5, 2015
The last few months have been crazy busy with normal things and unusual situations. All resulting in a great rushing around town and telephones ringing incessantly while I wear my many hats as wife, mother, grandma, daughter, sister, employee, minister, caregiver, and advocate for the homeless.
In the midst of stress and exhaustion, there is one time I must pause every morning, typically at 4 a.m. During those wee hours, I don a compression garment that looks very much like a cross between the Micheline Tire Man and Robo Cop. I then connect it to a machine that forces a tight lymphatic massage from my feet up to my arms. Rotating in four zones.
Those one to two hours daily are not much fun. Confining and often sweaty. But nevertheless, a necessary evil to ward off any increasing lymphodema caused by the removal of 100s of lymph nodes during my cancer fight.
To make it less taxing, I typically light a scented candle, make a cup of herbal tea, pull up a sermon on YouTube and attempt to ignore phone calls from those who try to catch me while I am being held captive.
This particular morning was different. I had settled into my routine. Tired from a week of very little sleep, but content to have two hours of escape.
15 minutes in, I noticed that only one of the 4 compression zones was working. I kept changing positions, thinking I was laying on one of the 4 hoses. I shook my legs, hoping maybe kicking would jump start the machine. I am so glad no one could witness what a comical sight it must have been to see a robot dancing on a couch.
I looked at the machine’s monitor twice, and everything was cycling as it should, but I just wasn’t getting my prescribed treatment. I started to panic, wondering how I was going to replace a $5000 medical device. I then remembered I had a 10 year warranty on the thing, but nevertheless, I starting to fret over the process and expense it would take to pack about 10 lbs of equipment and mail back to the non-local service center.
However, as I reached over to the machine that I was expressing anger toward, I felt a puff of air and realized that in my haste and distraction, I had only plugged in one of the four hoses. My machine wasn’t broken, I just hadn’t connected to it.
Immediately, in my spirit, I heard “yeah, kinda like us.”
A painful wave came over me, realizing that my failure to connect had spread to my relationship with my all-encompassing healing Savior.
In my rush and haste to perform “the have to” things in life, my personal time with Him was suffering greatly. He promised to be with me always, but I hadn’t always been with Him. Prayer and praise had been replaced with to-do lists.
Far worse, I had been complaining and pondering over promises and prophetic words that didn’t seem like they were working in my favor. Tired, spent, and joy decreasing. Blaming everything on the “machine” life can be, instead of connecting to the “Power”
As I replugged in the natural, I could also feel the Holy Spirit nudging me get my 4 zones in order : alone time with Him in true worship, more time in the Word learning about Him, re-establishing Him as priority, and trusting in His promise warranties.
I stopped a moment to apologize to Flexitouch Plus for failing to connect to it and narcissisticly making “it” the problem. Once I reconnected, it fulfilled all I needed to get back on track, and I always look forward to the release of pressure at the end of every session.
And yes, of course, I apologized to Jesus, and that release after reconnecting and being forgiven is amazing .
I can’t remember who’s social media page I saw it on, so I can’t give proper credit, but this paraphrased sentence shook me to my core.
“Never Tell A Person, ‘you got this’ when they ask for help because obviously they don’t or they wouldn’t be talking to you.“
I know it is something I have said thinking I was be encouraging, but could my pat on the back have seemed dismissive? Did I trivialize a pain that was greater for you than I feel in myself or for myself? Could you have needed a soft place to land and I simply elevated you to somewhere higher to fall from?
I think back to when I was at the height of my cancer battle. Folks would say “oh you got this” or “you are so strong.” In actuality, I was screaming on the inside, needing a shoulder to cry on and desperate for an old school laying on of oil anointed hands. When all my treatments were over, I politely smiled when asked if I was good now. I really should have loudly voiced, “oh heck no, I’m fighting extreme depression, I feel like I’m going crazy, please don’t abandon me.”
Ooooooo forgive me, I did mean well and I oft see past today and into your future. I still envision great things on the horizon. But at the time you need a Word, I will now tell you God got you and let’s see how we can walk through this.
There may be nothing I can do in the natural but be a voice in the darkness or a bit of sunshine clearing shadowing places. Truly, that may be all you need. Or I can point you to some resources beyond me. In wisdom, we will talk to the Father first about what is best for you.
Now bear with me, it may take me awhile to shake that cheerful cliché. But for today, I pray that whatever is disturbing your mind, your heart or your body be washed in the Presence of the Almighty. That you be hugged by the best comforting of the Holy Spirit. That the provision, healing, and freedom purchased by Christ at Calvary be revealed and afforded to you. That every wound be mended and every resource for a Balm in Gilead soothe every where you hurt.
I pray that today you see that God got this and God got you. And that you are never far from one willing to walk it through with you.
