May I Make A Suggestion? Remember Who You Are.

My earliest memory of spiritual connection outside of my parents occurred when I heard the poem, Go Down Death recited by a man with a baritone voice that was both commanding and soothing. I was so small that I was preoccupied with keeping the theater seat from folding in on itself during the program, but when I heard the man’s deep voice offer the words:

Weep not, weep not,

She is not dead;

She’s resting in the bosom of Jesus.

Heart broken husband-weep no more

Grief stricken son-weep no more

She’s only just gone home.

I worked out my weight distribution issue by sitting on the edge of my seat and listening anxiously as he described the peaceful passing of Sister Caroline in the funeral sermon. The performance left a stirring in my spirit that remains all these years later. It revealed the power of poetry, and I have been chasing that high since.

When I was introduced to poetry in school, I was shocked to find that those feelings were not recreated inside of me. I found it cumbersome to decode the heavy metaphors of the Great White Poets, and the pay-off lacked the soul stirring emotion I felt when I read James Weldon Johnson’s poems in books from my mom’s library. I quickly lost interest in pursuing writing as a life dream, carrying the weighty belief that I wasn’t smart enough to understand poetry. I wrote in secret and defined my art as inferior. I moved forward in life searching for achievable goals that were not soul-stirring but are commendable in society and require my attention and hard work. I learned to climb the professional ladder because I didn’t believe in the feeling of my soul, and I desperately needed to be proud of myself through the eyes of others.

When I become distracted it is because tapping into my power seems difficult. That is when I know that I am working in fear. When I choose to do laundry rather than write, or sleep-in rather than meditate, I go through a series of ridiculous steps until I get back on the journey. When I started sleeping-in a few days a week instead of working out in the mornings, my self-persuading conversations began with:

“I’m healthy. I don’t need to get up and do this every day.”

A few weeks later I woke to do a few short stretches rather than a full program:

“I should really get up and get back on the ball, but at least I’m doing something..”

A few months later, I transitioned to sleeping-in every morning and not working out at all. My excuses turned to guilt and shame:

“I remember when I used to get up every day and workout.”

Eventually, I figured out that I needed to change my program because the workout was no longer enough motivation to get me out of the bed. I replaced the circuit training with morning yoga which worked for a few months, but in October, I began a new cycle of statements to justify sleeping-in (I cannot be well if I don’t get proper rest). When I start a pattern of choosing late bedtimes over early mornings, phone scrolling over journaling, and fried chicken over everything (truth), it is time for a therapy session with myself.

My yoga workout is beneficial but not important enough to plan for an early bedtime which ensures an early rise. So, I gave in to late nights with Netflix and allowed my job to be the only motivation important enough to wake me in the mornings. That meant that my morning belonged to my job. I woke to check my work phone for emails and my daily schedule. I made breakfast so that I would not be hungry at work. I drove to work thinking about work and spent the rest of the morning working to achieve the company goals. This is my fall back. I have greater loyalty to the company’s goals than my own.

I started to ask myself, “What is going to wake you up in the morning? What is going to energize you enough to plan your bedtime and stick to it?” I had nothing. So, I started asking other people. “What do you do first thing in the morning?” They all said that they reach for their phones. My follow up question, “What could you do besides that?”

The questions led to conversations about how we could experiment to energize ourselves in the morning. We came up with a variety of options and I was moved to try something new. About a week ago, I started waking up to write. When I was waking up to run, I was a runner. When I was waking up for work, I was an employee. This past week, I have been waking up to my full self. Soul-stirring, fearful, ambitious me, sitting on the edge of my seat anxiously awaiting the next word.

---

Go Down Death (A Funeral Sermon)

by James Weldon Johnson

Weep not, weep not,

She is not dead;

She’s resting in the bosom of Jesus.

Heart-broken husband–weep no more;

Grief-stricken son–weep no more;

She is only just gone home.

Day before yesterday morning,

God was looking down from his great, high heaven,

Looking down on all his children,

And his eye fell on Sister Caroline,

Tossing on her bed of pain.

And God’s big heart was touched with pity,

With the everlasting pity.

And God sat back on his throne, And he commanded that tall, bright angel standing at his right hand: Call me Death! And that tall, bright angel cried in a voice That broke like a clap of thunder: Call Death!–Call Death! And the echo sounded down the streets of heaven Till it reached away back to that shadowy place, Where Death waits with his pale, white horses.

And Death heard the summons, And he leaped on his fastest horse, Pale as a sheet in the moonlight. Up the golden street Death galloped, And the hoof of his horse struck fire from the gold, But they didn’t make no sound. Up Death rode to the Great White Throne, And waited for God’s command.

And God said: Go down, Death, go down, Go down to Savannah, Georgia, Down in Yamacraw, And find Sister Caroline. She’s borne the burden and heat of the day, She’s labored long in my vineyard, And she’s tired– She’s weary– Go down, Death, and bring her to me.

And Death didn’t say a word, But he loosed the reins on his pale, white horse, And he clamped the spurs to his bloodless sides, And out and down he rode, Through heaven’s pearly gates, Past suns and moons and stars; on Death rode,

And the foam from his horse was like a comet in the sky;

On Death rode, Leaving the lightning’s flash behind; Straight down he came.

While we were watching round her bed, She turned her eyes and looked away, She saw what we couldn’t see; She saw Old Death.  She saw Old Death. Coming like a falling star. But Death didn’t frighten Sister Caroline; He looked to her like a welcome friend. And she whispered to us: I’m going home, And she smiled and closed her eyes.

And Death took her up like a baby, And she lay in his icy arms, But she didn’t feel no chill. And death began to ride again– Up beyond the evening star,

Out beyond the morning star, Into the glittering light of glory, On to the Great White Throne. And there he laid Sister Caroline On the loving breast of Jesus.

And Jesus took his own hand and wiped away her tears, And he smoothed the furrows from her face, And the angels sang a little song, And Jesus rocked her in his arms, And kept a-saying: Take your rest, Take your rest, take your rest.

Weep not–weep not, She is not dead; She’s resting in the bosom of Jesus.