When I was a young girl, I had a reputation in my family of searching feverishly for something that I would have lost. I’d be in my room, rummaging through drawers, boxes, top shelf containers, all in search of something that I needed to have. I would be successful in my search at times, but on those occasions of defeat, I’d get myself to sleep with a final pressing question on my mind: where on earth did I put that thing?
How saying my name over and over has become a routine
When I was in fifth grade, my teacher decided to give me a new name because it was easier to pronounce. I recall feeling flustered by the whole ordeal—like I had been causing an inconvenience for being who I was. This alone made it hard for me to reconcile one of her comments to me during reading group. She sat in the center of our half donut shaped table and said in a clear and frank tone that I was a scholar. I didn’t know what the word meant at the time but I asked around. I felt embarrassed to ask her myself—I was intimidated by her towering presence and her weekly assessments of our oral readings of poetry and prose, among other public speaking exercises.
We need to stop living in a bubble. When I hear commentators ask how to stop the carnage like the one that happened in Florida on Valentine’s Day, I shudder because to every believer, the answer is very clear. Sin is the culprit. Not guns, not laws, not circumstance, but sin.