An Ash Wednesday Reflection

Yesterday was Ash Wednesday – the beginning of the Lenten season leading up to Easter – the high point of the Christian year. As a day, it is intended to be a solemn reminder of the brevity of our lives – from dust we came and to dust we shall return – and so the ashes smeared on our heads as a marker of death.  But it is also a reminder of the inconstancy of our faith.

Those that welcomed him into Jerusalem waved the branches and shouted in celebration, ‘Blessed is he that comes in the name of the Lord’.  They thought, as we think, that Jesus had come on the scene to restore their kingdom, to satisfy their hopes and aspirations, to make them have the worldly success and prosperity that had been denied them under Roman occupation.

That is not why he came.

And so it is that year by year, the same palm branches that were used to celebrate are burned to produce the ash that marks us. It is a visible reminder that the triumphant joy we feel when Jesus comes turns to dust when we realise that his agenda is not our own. That his agenda is not the satisfaction of our aspirations. His goal is not to make us have worldly success and prosperity.

His kingdom, he said, is not of this world.

And so we are marked. The ashes symbolising the reality that the journey of discipleship is the downward journey into death.  Sanctification is about letting go, giving up, losing. It is about dying to our own plans for our lives, about relinquishing control of our destiny, about committing ourselves body and soul into the hands of the Lord.

To be sure there are joys, there are triumphs, there are blessings, but these things are beside the point. They are the things that attend our salvation, but they are not salvation itself. They are the graces that sustain us along the difficult downward path, but they are not the path. If any would come after him let him deny himself, take up his cross and follow him – and where is he headed?  He is headed to the cross. To shame.  To humiliation. To suffering.  And yes, to resurrection! To victory! To triumph! But these cannot be had without the other. We cannot pass over the painful downward path.
May God grant us grace to tread it well.


That Time I Almost Became an Atheist

I cannot now remember exactly when or how it happened, and thus it is difficult to describe with any lucidity. But, I do remember that it happened or rather, did not happen.  That is, I did NOT give up my confident belief in the reality of God. But I almost did.

As I said, I cannot quite remember the details so my description may be less than helpful for some.  I hesitated for long to write about it publicly, though I did reference the experience once in a sermon I preached. I do know that it was not precipitated by any particular event or culmination of events.  There was no great crisis, no singular moment of peril where I questioned God and all the things I had been taught, believed, and taught others.

No. It was not quite like that.

As I recall it now, I read a book. It was not a refutation of Christianity or anything like that, no.  It was a book about people who have walked away from their faith.  It was not especially well written or compelling and there were no arguments presented that were persuasive. It was mostly stories. Narrations of people who had been Christians and now no longer were.

Somehow it shook me.

Fear began to creep into my soul and I found it difficult to sleep well at night. I began wondering, ‘Will I too abandon my faith? Is there no God? Why do I persist in believing?’ It did not help that I was, and had been, in a very long dry season of faith.  My prayers, feeble and infrequent as they were, felt as if they reached no further than the ceiling, if that. Worship was dull and uninspiring. Bible reading – boring. There was so little there at all. A deep dryness had overtaken me, such that walking away would not have entailed much change, if any, in my daily habits and routines.

True, I would have lost my job in ministry and would have my Sundays free. There would have been tremendous disruption to the network of family relations and friendships.  It would have been isolating. But that is not what prevented me from walking away, though if I am honest, those considerations did enter in. And it does not really bother me that they did. I do not lack the courage of my convictions to face things honestly and only maintain a façade of faith for social reasons, which would have been the easiest thing. Not at all.

And it was not that I was afraid to face the arguments against theism – though I didn’t read them at that time. I did not need to read them, nor did I need to read defences of theism.  I knew, intuitively, that what I was going through was not about such arguments. I knew that they would not be persuasive one way or another. Besides, I had read them  before and knew (more or less) what they were all about.

There was one thing that restrained me however; one ‘argument’ that I found compelling – though not at the level of my intellect.

I call it the argument of humility, though perhaps that is a poor choice of words. Ultimately I could not walk away because I was burdened by the weight of mystery … the weight of history … the weight of, well, of experienced reality. And not only my reality, but the reality of tens of millions, of billions of others around the world historically and even now. There was something that would not allow me, though I had every reason to. I could not believe, yet, I could not NOT believe too.

So I allowed myself. I read no books in defence of faith. I did not aim to pray or study or meditate more. My prayers, feeble and infrequent, continue to bounce off the ceiling. I continued to be dry.  I simply allowed myself to drift on the current of faith (if you can call it that, as it felt like anything but), and at some point I cannot now recall, the moment ended – the crisis, as it were, subsided.  And I was left with God.

On Washing Clothes

Today I will not wash clothes. Tomorrow, perhaps, I will.

Washing clothes back home (in the U.S.) is such an unremarkable thing. Gather up the clothes, sort them (or not), then throw them in a machine, push a button, and walk away. Some time will pass, a buzzer will sound, you remove the clothes, throw them in another machine and walk away. That’s pretty much itwhatsapp-image-2017-02-20-at-4-31-00-pm

Not so here.

Here, washing is done on hand. Of course, some people do have washing machines, but we don’t.  We wash on hand, like most people.

What that means is buckets of water, washing soap, and time. Wash, wash, rinse, rinse, hang to dry. And sometime rushing out to gather the clothes from the drying line before a sudden rainstorm hits.

My wife hates washing clothes. It is tiring and dull and not so gentle on the hands.  Me? I don’t mind it so much. Except washing towels and jeans. That is no fun.

But I will not wash today. Tomorrow, perhaps, I will.


On Writing

I have recently joined, if one can call it that, a writer’s guild. It is rather an exalted title for what, in reality, is an eclectic collection of people on Facebook who have agreed to write, to typewriter-1024x1017encourage one another in our writing, and to respond with helpful critique to the writings that we offer.  For some it is a spur to greater creative activity. For me, it is a discipline I’ve chosen to impose upon myself.

Writing, you see, is not something that comes especially difficult for me. I don’t usually struggle to write,  that is, when I decide to write.  That decision point is really the challenge.

Give me a topic, any topic, and I can throw together words about it that are coherent and at least mildly entertaining, or at least not devastatingly dull.  Call it a gift, the gift of gab, or of know-it-all-ism, I am unsure which would be the better moniker for it. I am sure that I have it.

What I lack, however, is the discipline.  The iron will to write something whether I feel to write or not. To compose even on those days and in those moments when I would rather do something else.

Like sleep.

Nevertheless, I have committed myself. Perhaps this commitment will aide me.  Perhaps it will stir me from the haze of complacent over-thinking of every post and enjoin me to simply write whatever the result may be – whether good or bad.

True Humility, Fearless Honesty, and the Need for a New Prophetic Movement in Ghana: Part 1

This is humilitythe first of a multi-part series.

Some months ago, I was invited to speak on campus to a student fellowship on a topic related to integrity. I cannot now remember the exact theme upon which I was asked to declaim, but I do remember that I used words from the Ghanaian national anthem as a departure point for my remarks.  The first stanza of the anthem is a prayer – God bless our homeland Ghana – inviting God to strengthen the nation, and embolden its citizens to resist oppression. The two lines in the song I used in my sermon – Fill our hearts with true humility, Make us cherish fearless honesty – have continued to echo in my consciousness as I consider the challenges confronting Ghanaian Christianity.  I offer the following as my own observation and reflection on these, but in light of the theme, I offer them in humility, fully aware that I speak as an outsider to the culture. I therefore cannot presume to speak authoritatively or comprehensively, yet as a fellow Christian, I speak confidently (contrary to what many people think, confidence and humility are not mutually exclusive – more on that below), knowing that my position as an outsider affords me a perspective that those inside may not have.

True vs. False Humility

Humility is a value that is deeply ingrained in the cultural fabric of Ghanaian society. Generally speaking, and certainly in comparison to what passes for the norm in other cultural contexts, Ghanaians are unfailingly polite and relatively deferential, especially to those deemed to be their superiors by age, education, or social station.  Conversation is littered with ‘please’, ‘I beg you’, and ‘thank you so much’ and so on – words designed to smooth social interaction and leave a favourable impression on the hearers. No one wants to be thought of as proud, forward, or demanding. Obedience and deference to those who are your seniors, to those in authority, and to the elderly, are all (supposedly) highly valued. Aside these conversational conventions, one also notices the infrequency of people simply saying ‘thank you’ in response to compliments or congratulations. ‘It is the Lord, I’m just his servant,’ or ‘it is just the grace of God …’ or something else very spiritual is what is likely to be heard in response. Public ceremonies, whether of a religious or secular nature, often reference God as the source, his grace being the reason that this or that thing was accomplished.  This evinces a clear and admirable desire to deflect attention away from oneself towards others, or to God.

On the other hand, people who are a bit straightforward or outspoken are not infrequently criticised for being complainers, ‘too known’, or proud.  I find it telling that the incoming President of Ghana, Nana Akuffo-Addo, was previously criticised not for his policies, but because he came across as proud and arrogant. His election is perhaps evidence that he learned his needed lessons in humility. The East Asian proverb, the nail that sticks up is the one that is hammered down, comes to mind. A person seen to be making too much of a fuss about an issue (or about themselves) is considered to be somewhat prideful. After all, why should he or she be the one to speak up? Who is he or she to complain or raise an issue?

Perhaps most revealing of all is the comparative scarcity of, ‘I was wrong. I apologise. Forgive me.’ Oh, to be sure there are apologies. Plenty of them – just that they are usually delivered by the junior to the senior, by the ‘small boy’ to the ‘big man’.  It became headline news when the wife of the then Vice-President apologised publicly for her intemperate remarks – newsworthy because of the comparative rarity of such an utterance. Big men do not apologise, they explain, they lecture, they receive apologies from others. And when apologies are issued, it is often because what was spoken has offended someone, irrespective of whether it was true or not – as in the case when a prominent scientist was called to apologise for offending the dignity of Parliament, not necessarily because of the untruthfulness of his assertions (and I don’t recall the argument being made that his statements were false), but because it made the Parliament of Ghana look bad.

Not too long ago in a conversation with a much younger person, I had cause to apologise to him for something.  He responded that it was one thing he really appreciated about me – that I apologise, even though I am a ‘big man’.  And I replied, ‘First of all, I’m not a big man.  And secondly, am I God that I can never make a mistake? Why shouldn’t I apologise?’  He was surprised, but why should he have been? I am not God, and I do make mistakes.  Sometimes unintentionally, sometimes because I don’t realise how I come across more harshly than I intended, but far more often because I am being thoughtless, or selfish, or greedy – or any of a number of other sins that I struggle with. What does his age or my status have to do with it?

Yet all too often, it does.

The result of all this? A pandemic of false humility and a culture of pretence. Boastfulness is concealed under layers of euphemistic language designed to make one seem humble even whilst bragging. Apologies become occasion for ingratiating oneself with one’s superiors rather than genuine admissions of fault and harm, and the big men never apologise because they are not small boys.

None of this is Christian.

True humility, however, regards oneself with what the Bible terms ‘sober judgment’ – that is it has no need of trying to puff oneself up to cover one’s flaws, nor does it boast of one’s strengths. It doesn’t apologise for them either.  It simply accepts the reality that we all are a mixed bag of strengths and weaknesses, that we’re good at some things, and poor at others.  It receives a compliment with ‘Thank you’ and a wrong committed with ‘I’m sorry’. True humility speaks with simplicity and straightforwardly without the need to artificially degrade others, or inflate oneself.  True humility makes it easy to serve others and even to be served by others, because it doesn’t regard service as something lesser, or beneath – it is just a thing done by one person to or for another. Just as when Jesus served his disciples by washing their feet. It didn’t diminish him, nor did it embarrass him (though it did seem to embarrass Peter). And no one thought less of him for doing so.  I’m sure Jesus apologised when he made mistakes, maybe inadvertently jostling someone in the market place, or forgetting to bring the milk in (he was sinless, not flawless – and those are not the same).

True humility is marked by a sober, settled confidence that is neither apologetic, nor is it boastful. True humility is confident and true confidence is humble because it recognises the limitations that we all have and is consequently willing to learn from anyone, without forgetting that you also have a valid contribution to make.  This is the humility I believe we should strive for.



Thoughts on Charleston and other Matters

The last few days have seen a media furore over the murder, in an historic Charleston church, of nine Black parishioners in attendance at a Bible study by a young White man who allegedly claimed race as his motive.

Concurrently, I have been working on my PhD dissertation, and this week specifically, reading and writing about how the United States became the epitome of ‘White Christian Civilisation’ – a designation built upon invented assumptions about inherited, immutable, ‘racial’ characteristics that made the genocide of America’s indigenous peoples and the subjugation of African peoples appear both justifiable and in their own ultimate good.

Some of the justifications were religious, based on scriptural exegesis by both Muslim and Christian scholars.  Despite their religious differences, Christians readily absorbed Islamic racialist views vis-à-vis African people which had developed in the course of the brutal trans-Saharan slave trade.  Some of the justifications were cultural, rooted in long-standing associations of blackness with evil and sin.  Some were scientific, based on supposedly objective observation and interpretation of different people.  All of them came together to support the assumption that the peoples of Africa were inferior, degraded beings, and unworthy of consideration or respect as fellow humans.

Over the last weeks and months, I have read and engaged with political conservatives and watched as many struggle to reconcile the mythology of American exceptionalism and racial progress with the realities of persistent ongoing White supremacy. Who raise issues of how the ‘Black community’ is responsible to deal with Black intra-racial violence, high crime rates, and paternal absence when police brutality is raised as an issue, but who insist on distancing themselves from the actions of ‘lone shooter’ White men.  White people are always individuals.

When news of the shooting broke, I thought of my father pastoring a not-so-significant-nor-historic Black Pentecostal church and what it would be like to have an unexpected visitor show up at Bible study, sit through, and then open fire on him.  I thought of my other family members – safe for now, yes, but are they ever really safe?  Will the next shooting be at my Dad’s church?  My brother’s?  My uncle’s? Will the next killing by police of an innocent Black man be my cousin? My nephew? My gut tightened to think of it.

I thought of President Obama raising the issue of guns, even though gun control was initially a tool in the hands of White supremacists to keep Blacks unarmed and vulnerable.

I thought of the inability of our national leaders to ever honestly face the reality of the United States as a settler colonial state, founded on genocide and theft, all the while proclaiming itself as the beacon of freedom for the world.

I thought of my ancestors, bound and shackled, naked and humiliated whilst undergoing inspection like cattle – their bodies not their own, the basics of human decency denied them.  Men and women alike used for the sexual pleasure of men who called those they abused animals.

I thought of my now deceased grandmother who, on the sole occasion I asked about life in ‘those days’, simply said, “White people were mean.  They were so mean”, and added nothing else to it – her silence speaking volumes that words could not express.

I thought of the South – the place of my nativity – which has long been the scapegoat for American racial politics, the whipping boy of American White guilt.  I thought of how such scapegoating allowed and allows the rest of the country to rest easily – look at how wicked and racists those Southerners are! – all the while taking secret solace in the South doing actively what the rest of the nation passively endorsed.

Here in Africa, the place from which some people would suggest I should be glad my ancestors were ‘rescued from’, we’ve had power outages.  We’ve had flooding due to incompetent and inattentive leaders.  We’ve got all kinds of problems.  More than the 99 problems of the now famous song.  But this isn’t one of them.

The Last Enemy is Death

Today is the day of the Resurrection of the Lord Jesus Christ.

I reflect on this day from the comfort of the guest room in my sister and brother-in-law’s home in California after a nice time at church followed by a nice time of fellowship over a delicious meal.

I am busy preparing a presentation for friends and supporters of the ministry.

I scroll through photos of our time in Ghana, trying to think of what to say, how to share our lives and ministry with them.

I run across the videos of Reese, our beloved daughter.

I see her laughter, her smiles..

The tears come without invitation.  I miss my baby girl.  My time with her was too short and she should be here with us.

And the words too come unbidden to my ears and my heart…

The last enemy is death.

Seeing my departed daughter’s beautiful face and smiles and laughter brings home to me the stark reality that she really is gone. She is dead. And the reality of her death causes me to see through the thin veneer of American affluence to the haunting face of that last enemy we try so hard to avoid facing — that last enemy, death, who deals his hand without recourse to one’s wealth or poverty or sex or social status or nationality. Our cosmetic enhancements, healthy eating, comfortable cars, air conditioned homes, technologically advanced medical centers — none of them do anything other than delay the inevitable date with death our last and greatest enemy.  He is the one against whom no army has ever emerged victorious and from whose clutches no one has ever escaped…

except Him.

“I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live.”

I’m not a White person anymore

laughingFor the last almost three years, I’ve been a White person.  A strange kind of White person, a White person with a funny accent, a White person who doesn’t ‘get’ all the inside cultural jokes, but a White person nonetheless.

When I shop, when I go the filling station, when I am stopped by the police, when I do anything and everything, I am White.

I became a White person when we moved here.  I don’t remember exactly when it happened, but one day I realised  – “OH!  This is what it must be like to be White.”  To be greeted every day by media that looks like you.  To travel the streets and see police that look like you.  To see politicians, teachers, engineers, doctors, accountants, street cleaners, homeless people, thieves – all of whom look like you. To go into a store and not have to look for the “black” section to buy products for my hair and skin.

Because my hair is normal.  My lips are normal.  My eyes are normal. My butt is normal. Heck, even the people smiling back at me from the toothpaste tube are normal – they look like me. For the first time in life I was the norm, my colour neither a barrier, nor a benefit – just an incident.

No one assumes anything about me positively or negatively because of the colour of my skin.

Since I’ve become White, I’ve never had to think about these things.  It doesn’t even come to mind. Being White is nice – I can see why people wouldn’t want to give up the privilege.  Because since I’ve been here and enjoyed some White privilege, my wife doesn’t get the same privilege.

She is the one to whom is attributed all the suspicion of her ethnicity regardless of the fact that she’s not at all like them. She is the one who is more likely to be pulled over because of the colour of her skin, or to be overcharged, or to hear a racial slur – or simply to be ignored and disrespected.  My wife isn’t White.

We will be traveling back to the states in two-weeks for a long visit after almost 3 years living abroad.  We will be returning to a “post-Ferguson” America.  Of course America was post-Ferguson before Ferguson for many of us, so I’m not so sure what difference that makes.

It does make a difference though and I am admittedly apprehensive. Not because I expect to become the latest in a string of “unarmed Black man shot dead by police”.  No, I don’t expect that.  I am apprehensive because going home will be both a breath of fresh air – of returning to the familiar, of returning to abundance, and to the efficiency of life in the good ole’ USA – and also a breath of noxious air – of returning to a place where the first and defining characteristic for almost all who see me will be the colour of my skin.

I won’t be White anymore.

Where is Home Now?

Recently I received a link about all the things living overseas that no one tells you about, written by a missionary.  I read it, laughed at some things, shrugged at others, but mostly contemplated how little any of it applies to me.  It is like that with most things I read that are written by missionaries living overseas.  Most of them don’t seem to resonate much with me or my experiences.  And much of the dissonance has to do with this notion of home.

We’re planning a visit to the US in March and yesternight I was discussing it with my wife.  I was commenting to her how strange it feels to think of going to the US as going “home”.

I mean, it is home. I lived in the US all my life until almost 3 years ago when I came to live in Ghana.  The sights, sounds, mood of the American South are deep in my consciousness and blood.  My family is there.  My church is there.  Everything is there.

But it still feels strange, just like all those cutesy things about missions feel somewhat ‘off’ as it relates to my own experience. I think I know why.

I think it is because of something a missions Pastor said in an off the cuff remark that I did not fully appreciate at the time.   He is himself an ex-patriate – a South African living in the United States.  So I asked him if he missed home and he replied, “Home is where my family is.”

Well my family is in the US and so is my wife’s.  And we are very much embedded in the whole extended family thing.  When I say “family” I automatically include my aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces and nephews, and in-laws, not to mention those friends of the family that are like family anyway, or my brother’s ex-wife who has now been divorced from him about as long as they were married but who I still consider my sister, and her sister, and her sister’s children who call me uncle… it gets complicated but you get the picture.  When I say “family” the list gets pretty long.  And why wife’s case is worse since her family is spread out over 3 continents and 5 different countries (at least those I can think of off head).

But still… the mission pastor had a point.  My immediate family – me, wife and children – are all here.  And more importantly, about half of our family life has been formed in this context.  Which means that most of our memories as a family are associated with this place and not that place.

Here is where my eldest son had his first birthday.

Here is where my second son was born.

Here is where we first went for a beach vacation as a family.

Here is where we had our most difficult arguments and our greatest make-ups.

Here is where our little girl was conceived, born, lived and died.

Here is where virtually everything about our marriage and family life has been formed.

Here feels very much like home.

In Memoriam

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Flora Knox 1928 – 2014

I received news via Facebook very early this morning that my paternal grandmother, Big Mama, died.  She was 86 years old.

As far as I know, Big Mama did not die of anything in particular, nor is it really necessary that she should have died of something in particular.  At 86 years I think a person has a right to die without anything being ‘wrong’ with them at all; you are old and you have died, that is all.

She used to say that she promised the Lord that if he let her keep her mind, she would serve him all her days and that if you ever saw her not serving the Lord we should pray for her mind.  Well over the last few years, my grandmother did experience mental decline but she keep serving him anyway.

When I received the news I told my wife that I had expected my grandmother to die this year and was in fact hoping that it would happen when I travel back to the US this year during the holiday break.  I do not mean to say that I was looking forward and hoping for my grandmother’s death as that is by no means the case.  I mean only that I had hoped to be there when she died so that I could mourn and celebrate with the family.  And in any case some years back she told me that she wanted me to preach her funeral.  I am not sure that is now possible, but we will see.

This request of hers, that I preach her funeral, leads me on to further reflection as I consider her life and her death.  One of my cousins mentioned that she was the matriarch of the family.  Truer words have hardly been spoken.  How can one remember, mourn, and celebrate the loss of someone who fully fits that description? It feels as if the queen of a minor monarchy has died and I am one of its princes.  (Too bad we don’t have any princely money.)

She was in fact a true matriarch, the woman around whom a tremendous constellation of family and friends of the family revolved whether they knew her personally or not.   Her matriarchy was not built on the basis of a large family: she had only 4 children, and 12 grandchildren – not especially huge numbers as such things go.  And the family was not, in the strictest sense of the word, the center of her matriarchal power.  Sure, years ago we would gather at her place during Christmas to eat and all that, but it has been a quite a long while since that tradition died (to be honest it was not at all one especially enjoyed by our ‘branch’ of the family tree, that is my father’s children; we were not really upset when that tradition ended but that’s another story).  No the matriarchy of my grandmother was built on something quite different and is something to which I am, in a very real sense of the word, an heir.  It was built on the church.

You see my grandmother was the founder of the church in which I grew up.  Family sat at the center but many others came, seeking their soul salvation, looking for the truth, desperate for deliverance from sin, from death, from the challenges of life.  They came and became connected to us, to the family that sat at the core of things.  They came as friends of the family, sisters and brothers-in-law, wives and husbands turned ex-wives and ex-husbands who stayed even though they were no longer married into the family but were still part of the church and thus part of the family, the Lord added to their numbers those who would be saved. They came and they were drawn in not just to the church but into the family so that everybody seemed to be related even though only a few of us actually were.  The church was the family and the family was the church and we who were in both could scarcely tell where one ended and the other began.  So my grandmother was matriarch beyond the natural family — she was mama, and big mama, and pastor all at the same time to a great many people.

She was my grandmother and my pastor and she reigned as pastor of the church for more than 35 years until she abdicated the throne to my father, her eldest son and chief heir to her ministerial and pastoral legacy.  I use the term ‘reigned’ intentionally for that is how it felt to us, or to me at least since all our lives we, the children of her eldest son, grew up as I imagine royal heirs grow up except in this case we were being groomed for ministry.

It was only natural.  My two uncles were both younger than my father and were not really the church-going type.  The youngest one, though now in ministry himself, came late to it after many years of wandering as a prodigal.  My aunt, older than my father, was consistently inconsistent and besides she smoked and played the numbers, two giant no-no’s for anyone aspiring to leadership in Pentecostal Holiness circles.  So it fell to my father as the one called to ministry early, and consequently to us his children. So we learned about all the workings of ministry and the dynamics of leadership not so much as children of the church but as dynastic heirs to a priestly inheritance.

So it was that she reigned in the church and ruled in the family, combining in herself the sacred and the familial role in such a way that the two dimensions of power are inextricably linked for me.  It is nearly impossible to separate my remembrance of her as my grandmother from my remembrance of her as my 1st pastor.

I still remember her preaching in such a way that it seemed hell itself would open up and swallow you where you stood for the sins you’d committed that week.

I remember her leaning on the pulpit looking with the serious face on those who were tarrying there for Holy Ghost power because it wasn’t the Holy Ghost until she said it was, no matter how much you cried or screamed or rolled on the floor.

I remember her running, when she still could run, and dancing before the Lord with joy even when she couldn’t really anymore.

I remember when I shared with her my sense of calling to the ministry… how she looked at me but seemed to be looking through me.  (I think if more people had to sit in my grandmother’s living room to talk about their calling to ministry while she looked through them too quite a few of them might change their mind and decide they weren’t called after all.)

For the other branches of the family (the children of my father’s 3 siblings) the mourning and remembrance will be different… of course it would be.  Her relationship with them was different than it was with us.  For them I think (though I can’t be certain) they experienced her as Big Mama or Mama first and pastor second whilst for us it was perhaps the other way ’round.

She was my grandmother though and not just my pastor.  And she loved us and we loved her not just as a pastor but as a grandmother.  If it wasn’t for her none of us would be here.  I will miss her, indeed I already do.