Unpacking Suitcases

I've been feeling super unmotivated lately.

Unmotivated to eat. Unmotivated to read for class. Unmotivated to play my piano. Yes. Superwoman is unmotivated! Unmotivated to do laundry even though I'm running out of clothes. Unmotivated to unpack my suitcase from Christmas. YUP! Christmas was 3 weeks ago today and my suitcase is still sitting on my bedroom floor with clothes spilling out of it.

It's been 3 weeks since I felt all was right in the world. And by right, I don't mean perfect. Just right enough with the hope that 2018 would carry me into a much needed and worked for breakthrough. I actually thought that I deserved a breakthrough--how egotistical of me?--that I had put in the work, that I had parted with a lot in order to embrace this calling, that I had said "yes" to God enough times to warrant a turning of the tides in 2018.

I. Was. So. Wrong.

I sit here with unpacked suitcases on my bedroom floor, afraid to say goodbye to the wonderful week I spent at home during the holidays--afraid to unpack the memories of the best Christmas I've had in many many years.

Afraid to unpack.

It was the quiet before the storm. For the first time in years, we opened presents around the Christmas tree with mom. I spent the rest of the day with dad and my brothers and cousins and aunts and uncles and nephew. I ate gumbo and drank bourbon. I played cards with mom that night. It was awesome--the beauty out of ashes that I'd prayed for. Not perfect, but awesome.

I'm afraid to unpack and put away those memories. I still have gifts sitting in my living room in the gift bags they came in. Afraid to unpack. They are remnants of the quiet before the storm--an imperfect but hopeful time.

But here's the thing: we can't move through life freely with unpacked baggage weighing us down. Healing is not possible unless we unload the stuff that triggers the pain. We are a band-aid and baggage culture. Instead of cleaning the wound, we bandage and busy ourselves, as to distract ourselves from the blood dripping down our chests. Yes, the blood dries...eventually... but are we really healed?

I'll unpack soon.

Comments

"Where Do You See Yourself in 5 Years?"

Today (December 1st, 2020), Facebook reminded me that 5 years ago, I wrapped up a 5-week run of Ain't Misbehavin' at Portland Center Stage in Oregon, and flew back to New York City to re-enter my life there. I had just applied to seminary a few days before Thanksgiving and was excited about the possibility of leaning into this strong calling I felt to deepen my theological knowledge. I was still under the illusion that I'd be able to maintain some sort of performance career, so I kept my manager, Greg, and he'd continue sending me out on auditions. I was becoming very picky about what I'd say "yes" to-- Would I go on that national tour of Hamilton that he wanted to send me on or would I go to seminary? Would I leave to do a 9-month stint in After Midnight on an international cruise ship or would I go to seminary? That was the question over and over again. I decided that I'd still do local stuff in NYC or short stints in other cities. Even as I ente

Cracked Eggs, Nerf Guns, and the Murder of Karon Blake

Cracked Eggs, Nerf Guns, and the Murder of Karon Blake At the time of my writing this, I am sitting in my big chair, staring at my front window from inside the house, looking at the drippings that have stained the glass from the eggs that some neighborhood kids hurled at my window almost two weeks ago. They were mad at me (I suppose) because they came to steal another package off my front porch in December, but they did not know that it was a package I’d planted with a note inside. I had them on camera stealing several packages on my block during the winter break, including one of mine that contained dog food (I know they were disappointed when they opened that one up ha!). Instead of calling the police or posting their faces on the many neighborhood apps, I decided to take an old amazon box, place a note inside, retape it and leave it on the porch. The note read: “God loves you. I care about you. Stop stealing packages. -Pastor Mac.” I wanted these 3 kids who look like they ar

Exhausting Possibilities: A Sermon by Rev. Mia M. McClain

2 Kings 4:1-7 Delivered on August 15, 2021 at Myers Park Baptist Church, Charlotte, North Carolina I am a child of Grey’s Anatomy. No, not the human anatomy book by Henry Gray; the hit medical television drama. It’s safe to say that because of my obsession with the show, I am who am I, today. Between Grey’s Anatomy, Scandal, and How to Get Away With Murder, writer and producer Shonda Rhimes was basically my 3rd parent. In Grey’s Anatomy, so many life lessons were taught and learned. I saw so much of myself in the various groundbreaking characters she made room for on primetime television, and Shonda’s theologies and ideologies are on clear display in many of the landmark scenes. One scene, in particular, has had a lasting effect on me. In the 2nd episode of season 2, a trauma patient comes in who the paramedics have been working on for almost a half hour with no improvement in his condition. The paramedic tells the Chief Resident, Dr. Miranda Bailey, that the patient is practically g

God and Wine

Search This Blog