On grief and new songs
a mini essay as remembrance
Often times I find myself in very bratty conversations with God. A part of me is always throwing a tantrum in our conversations like a sleepy toddler who refuses to go to sleep when they’re tired.
Sometimes I am taken aback by my own irreverence, but then I remember I have a reason to be this bratty, and I think God knows it too.
Today marks four years since the dreadful night that changed my life. I’d been avoiding remembering this day, but my body asked me to remember, so I am listening.
Long ago I used to work for a white evangelical church. It was perhaps my last attempt at seeing and finding some redemption in my own history with the white evangelical church. I wanted to end the story with a pretty bow on the end. Instead it almost cost me my life.
I no longer share the details of that night, though they are ingrained in my brain. The emotional and spiritual abuse combined with racism and white supremacy changed my brain chemistry possibly for the rest of my life.
As of today I’ve been in seminary for a month and one week, and maybe I should’ve known this grief anniversary would come like a wave because every day I am thinking and writing about God. I am even reading the Bible (for class but I am reading it nonetheless). Sometimes I don’t say much in my classes, not because I don’t have anything to say, but because I am often remembering. Remembering how some of these beautifully sacred texts have been weaponized, have caused so much harm, and somehow I still need to see it through.
Last week I made a silly joke about listening to “Christian” music while reading the Bible, and really, the joke was on me because it opened the the flood gates. So many songs came to mind, songs that once meant something to me, songs of what I thought to be worship, songs that held my tears so many times, and songs that held my laughter. On principle, I refused to streamed them.
But it also reminded me that just because those songs are over, it doesn’t mean my song is over. My voice can still sing a song about a compassionate God.
Last year on this grief anniversary I was in Lima, and I received the sweetest gift. Susana Baca was performing at the Gran Teatro Nacional and I knew I had to be there. Susana Baca is an Afro-Peruvian educator and singer. Her work focuses on Blackness, feminism, gendercide, and la lucha del pueblo.
I remember sitting in the theater and the moment Susana began singing the tears streamed down my face. There I was, in my beloved Lima listening to the voice of a woman who helped bring me back to health through her music and her celebration of Blackness, specifically the Afro-Peruvian expression(s) of Blackness.
And this is the new song I sing today. The song that can only be played al sonido del cajón. Of course God met me as a Black woman celebrating her Blackness and as someone committed to the liberation of her people, and this too changed my brain chemistry forever. A baptism of sorts, in the submersion of my tears gluing the fragments of my heart.
And so today, yes, it is the day when PTSD became a part of my life, and it is now also the day when Spirit met me in my grief and infused my veins with a celebration for life once again.
I’m known amongst my friends for always saying I’m God’s favorite and I’m not saying I have proof, but low key I do have proof. I have proof because even when I’m bratty I seem to still be in dialogue with this God I question every day, and if I know anything about this God is that even my bratty comments are received as sacred. And I am absolutely God’s favorite because after the concert last year I got to meet Susana. She was the gentleness my heart needed.
In this grief and in this celebration I just want to remember that new songs of liberation and liberating love can still be written, can still be sung, can still fill theaters, and can still make my hips move.
Susana Baca’s performance at the Gran Teatro Nacional can be found on YouTube, but if you prefer something shorter, her NPR Tiny Desk is brilliant as well.
In 2016/2017, Susana’s version of Caras Lindas became my daily prayer. Caras Lindas translates to “Pretty Faces”, referring to the beautiful faces and beings of Black people.
I hope this lil’ essay reminds you that your song isn’t over, that new songs can be written.
Love you so much, friend. 💗
Yes friend