This Trip Back into the City, God restored parts of myself...

I never expect a trip to NY to give me anything. I anticipate the horrible sense of withdrawal that I get when I have to let go. I never expect to get any spiritual gifts from the visit. I really don't want to hang on to a lamp post and embarrass myself in my children's eyes as I cry for them not to take me from the city. I keep my mind away from what a visit to NY will do to me.

How can somebody love a city? How can you love such a city? I can't help it. I miss the Cross Island to the Cross Bronx and the LIE to the deepest subway station. I start my rant in my heart, from the moment we say let's go. I imagine myself moving into the subway station at Parsons and living inside the columns that hold up the ceiling. "Listen, lady", the cop would say. "You cannot move in here!"

God knows my heart. He absolutely shows me that he understands my pain. He took on cloud duty on this trip and was making funny faces all the way from the beginning to the end of the trip. That made me more scared. Why would God enter into this little trip to visit family and escape from the storm? God moves in a mysterious way lyrics came to mind:

Behind a frowning providence, He hides a smiling face...

I saw the smiling and jokey faces in the clouds and couldn't help but laugh that He is that humorous and interactive. Now I was really scared. Is there a special sin for thinking about God as a humorist? That is not a sober thought, perhaps not a sane thought. Anyway, that was my thought.

As we crossed the GWB 3 chilling cool senses touched the right side of my head. They were truly cool and sensed. Just as strong as a person touching me on my head, these feelings were on my head for just a moment and then they were gone. Immediately the knowledge of directions flooded in and the memories of prayerful motivations flooded in. The many days of sitting in traffic facing the opposite way and hoping to carry some of the burdens of prayer to a meeting of the saints, seemed like a solid thing, not an impulse.

I don't believe that my city is the city of destruction anymore. I love this city and I want to see it in heaven with me. How imbecilic of a thought to think that God can save this inanimate object that you love?

That is me. I love this inanimate object that represents millions and millions of people's hearts and minds and ambitions and commitments. Shame on me. Concern yourself about your own ambitions and family and stop making the city your own. God let me know that He loves them more than I do. God let me know that my heart is not big enough to hold a city, but His is. I am certainly glad of that! I can leave the city in His magnificent hands and know that He's got this!

I didn't cry one tear on the way home and I didn't move into the subway. I was able to let go again and know He can hold me through this detachment again.

Temper Tantrums and Post Partum?

I do dearly hope that your every dream comes true. My imagination that the US Open would have Black Women in the finals came true yesterday. I felt like my soul was hanging in the balance as these amazing swashbuckling women hit harder and harder than I ever dreamed that the ball could go. I could see the confidence and the determination that makes winners and the strength of mind and heart that can be overcome to become a loser. She didn't imagine that a ball could come at her as hard as she has hit at other people. She didn't imagine that a person could challenge her every resolve to get up from the floor.

Serena was bettered! I thought I would never see that day. I thought those girls would just retire and leave the game bereft of any following in their footsteps of hard and fast and powerful matches. I like the feminine game. I like to see long rallies and finesse, but I love what the Williams' have done to the game as well. I thought that perhaps there were a way to create two different games out of what they had done.

I drooled this past year to see the longer matches and dramatic athletacism that the younger players were enjoying while the most recent Queen of the Courts took her sabbatical. I loved reminiscing about what women's tennis used to be. It all came together, when those women bashed the mess out of those cans of balls, yesterday.

I remembered the day that Martina, said "why can't we go to the net, like the men?" I remembered how my father was trying to drill that kind of venomous determination into my game. What is woman's tennis and what is neutral? How could followers of "Chrissy style" of game ever become aggressive hard-hitting bashers of the ball? My dad thought you could just put a new piece into my game, like a vacuum cleaner and create "more power".

Like going to the store for a personality and a play style was yesterday's game. That is what I wanted you to do and be. Keep your feminine demeanor and smash that ball, like I know you can. That is going to take 2 more generations of play, Dad. I wanna be Chrissy! I wanna be a ball move and spinner. I wanna run around the court and hit my two handed backhand from the baseline until the cows come home. I loved feminine Tennis. He saw the future and the masculine side of the game. Don't even think, just bash it! He indeed did beat that reflex into my game, but a part of me died, trying to get to that game.

I saw the mantle passed. I saw whaat Dad was saying and we all genuflect to an amazing new generation who loved gramps enough to see that there is no dichotomy between femininity and power! I love you Serena!

I am amazed by Naomi!

It is YOUR TURN! don't you ever stop crying!