Last week a good friend had a baby, and as those of us who have been loving him sight unseen drove to meet him, we remembered how tiny he would be, how formless and fragile. And he was. Babies come to us in a manner that demands we remember to be gentle,

to wield our powers wisely,

to slow down,

to wash up,

to hold firm,

to pay attention,

 

Because life, is precious and needs such things from us.

 

 

The week before, that, a different boy—a beloved son of my family’s family died. He was precious too—in the way that all humans are, of course—and also in a very particular way. You know how some people never really lose the kid-ish quality that makes you remember their humanity, even as they grow older? He was that kind of boy, slight but striking, technically an adult, but perpetually a child of God.

 

Being sandwiched in some small way between the life and loss of these beautiful boys is a reminder to me that to exist at all for any amount of time despite the ever-present

danger & destruction, darkness & distractions that pervade an otherwise majestic world, is a miracle.

 

Words elude us in the enormity of these moments, life and death that is, because there is a more visceral phenomenon at work within us. It is right and good, at times, to be speechless. Such ineptitude drives us to sit, to touch, and to be with rather than to talk at.

 

Quiet places are often holy places.

 

But in between life and death, words are what we as humans have been gifted to offer and to receive—tender and salve— and over the last 365 days, you have graced me with word after precious word, giving me something to hold on to, to handle, to ponder, and with which to pray.

I began this blog last year on Juneteenth—a day when we celebrate long-awaited, long-deferred freedom for people like me to be understood, treated, and protected as our humanity requires. I have never been a traditional celebrant on occasions like the 19th of June or MLK Day. I was raised in white spaces and tended to be ignorant of, if not resistant to, any holiday that reminded me of my markedness. And if, as scripture says, it is for freedom that we’ve been set free, my inclination has always been to honor these holidays with the act of creation. What better way to show and to know that I was formed in the image of a creator, regardless of any crooked law or look that suggests otherwise?  I am never better at proclaiming my humanity than when I acknowledge the divine burning within me, bursting forth beyond me, birthed into the world because I delivered it—and because I am it.

 

Have I at times been precious about it all—tantruming, exacting, thoroughly self-involved? Yes, I’ve been a writer—the author and the finisher, week after precious week. This blog began because a book died inside of me awaiting the proper attention and intervention of professionals. It was, like many miscarriages, largely unseen, unrecognized, shrugged off like, “too bad”, “there will be others”, “count your blessings” and all that. But, like many such losses, there was an inner circle around me who cried and cursed God with and for me.

 

Three of those people, three of the people who love me most in the world (and I them) celebrated with me last year when Black White Other began. They drove out of town, they ate, they drank, they were merry with no less vivacity than if I had signed a million-dollar deal. Another of my beloveds has written me a letter telling me what she loved about each and every essay. It is hard to say what if any work this creation has done in the world—but I’m learning, slowly but surely that work isn’t everything. Still, I know what it has done in me. Over the last 52 weeks and 26 essays,

 

I have refused to await permission to be excellent.

 

I have made myself share imperfect, sometimes woefully unfinished sentiments.

 

I have skipped weeks when to force myself to produce would have been a lack of humankindness.

 

And I have forgiven myself when old intergenerational errands came calling and I picked up and went along because sometimes familiarity is easier than freedom.

 

In a year that has been one precious gift after another, I am immensely grateful for everyone who has read, submitted, and commented on these little meaning-making essays. Life, for each of us, can seem so formless and fragile, tragic too.

 

Writing and rewriting makes a lot of it bearable and some of it beautiful.

This is why we must all continue whether

 

in word

or in deed,

 

in life

or in death

 

to

practice

resurrection

 

over

and over

and over

again.