Just ride

 

Ah! Little guy

We hustle you and me, me and you

Up and down we go

Through emotions and hormone tempests we go

Now you want dread locks

Now caramel hair

Now you want earrings

Now diamond teeth

What?! A necklace?

Want to shop with mom in the jewelry section?

Find identity within I say, find identity in Christ I say

How you present yourself is key I say

You say I don’t understand and maybe, maybe

You grow here, I grew there

America, Africa – different countries

You grow now, I grew then

America, Africa – different cultures

Young black man you fit the profile

No one will know you are mom’s little guy when you are out on the streets and there is trouble everywhere

No one will know you are mom’s little guy when you walk into a store dressed in a hoody and goofing around with friends

You are not little anymore, but you will always be mom’s little guy

Yes, you tower over me

Yes, you are stronger than I am

Catching up to dad real soon and that’s real cool

Little guy

Listen. Stop. Think.

You probably can’t hear over the emotions and loud music

Emotions will fade, there better be more when all is spent

Ah! Now you cool off

Now you trim the hair

Now you pull up the pants

Now we spend more time together

Now we exchange ideas and plans and thoughts

A steady young man emerges

What’s around the corner?

What does a parent do on these youthful roller coaster rides?

Hold onto your hat and ride, just ride

Let God deal with you both on this journey

@Mrs. O

8/12/2020

Confession

 

A short story.

Today I went to confession.

I had been thinking about it for a while, preparing for it, not the sinning but the confession part.

During confirmation classes our teacher mentioned confession was a requirement. He also said one couldn’t have the Holy Eucharist unless one had confessed one’s sins. I wanted to have the Holy Eucharist; it had been on my mind for many years.

I Imagined the day I would humbly walk up Christ the King church aisle, head bowed, hands neatly clasped behind my back. I would stand before the priest eyes closed and mouth open. He would place the white wafer on my tongue, I would slowly close my mouth, pause a second before turning around and walking back to my seat. I would kneel by the pew and pray looking pious and pure and mature – no longer a kid but a young lady growing up in wisdom and stature, in favor with God and Man.

My brother and I practiced the act of receiving the Eucharist with crisps; stick the tongue out, give enough circumference for the piece to land squarely in the middle of the tongue and then retract the tongue reverently. We got good practice with the crisps; it was the confession that needed some more work.

The confirmation class was scheduled to confess on Saturday, and I still didn’t know what to tell the priest. I had stolen a pencil and lied to my mother – that was as heavy as it got, but was it enough? Would he send me away admonishing me to dig further and find the real sins? Were these sins good enough for confession? I mean I had a crash on one of the alter boys but that wasn’t a sin or was it?

I walked up to the confession box in the corner of the church. I drew the purple curtain to enter, it was deemed inside. The priest sat behind a veil. I knelt afraid to look around in case he recognized me or I him. Something about anonymity brought security although I still struggled to be vulnerable.

I uttered the words “Father, I have sinned”.

In a calm deep voice, he asked me to confess.

I said “I stole a sharpener at school”

“My child, do you still have the sharpener?”

I said, “Yes father”, and in that moment I realized I was lying because I didn’t have the sharpener, it got lost. I had sinned again in confession. What about the lies? I didn’t mention the lies, oh dear, they were so many, I would never leave confession at this rate.

After a moment of silence Father asked me to go home and say, “Five Hail Mary’s and the full rosary”.

I withdrew from the confessional reverently. I had qualified for confirmation.

One of the other kids got news from his older brother that the priest dipped the wafer in wine at confirmation. We were going to have wine in church. We were almost adult Christians.

This was big!

 

Is the Black Boy Child Prone to Prison in America?

As a mother, I wake with a start. I realize I’m subconsciously praying for my boys. Praying for my boys in hypnopompic – the stage between sleep and wakefulness. Praying.

The Black Boy Child (BBC) in America faces a unique set of hurdles – life and the quality of life.

He may escape with breath in his lungs, but he’s restricted on where to breathe.

Temptations and trials magnify in middle school and college; alcohol, drugs and sex spin a rope so strong that he easily gets trapped unable to shake the braids loose. Decisions made mold the road ahead.

A permissive society compounds the situation. The muscle for restraint and delayed gratification is challenged.

“You are free to do as you wish as long as it doesn’t harm others” – a questionable stand but one that many young people live by.

Parent’s desire to hover, guard, sneak around, investigate and literally paralyze a child is strong. Bad habits lurk in every corner waiting for an unguarded moment to pounce, lure and take hold.

Keep them in the house – the internet beckons the curious teenage mind. Allow freedom of the outdoors – odd friendships creep in. It’s a losing battle – it feels that way.

Profanities spew like broken cisterns; clothes are restrictive on and off television. Sensitivity and decency are seared.

King David’s question in Psalms 119: 9 stands: How does a young man keep his way pure? The struggle to hide God’s word in the heart intensifies.

Conservative societies like Uganda do not have it any easier. Children are exposed to adult themes in constricted living quarters. Uncles take advantage of young girls. Profanity is at par with modernity and the cool western lifestyle.

The scenarios are countless, parents are concerned the world over but the case for the Black Boy Child ending up in prison seats heavy in America. Three strikes and you’re out.

What do parents do?

Is the Black Boy Child Prone to Prison?

These questions linger.

“From Heaven Above” 1996 Kampala Pentecostal Church Christmas Cantata with Ken Serukenya

Journey with me.

It was a dark and stormy night…

No!

It was a cool Tuesday afternoon on December 23^rd, 1996. News of Kampala Pentecostal Church’s (KPC) free Christmas cantata rippled through town. Eager church goers rushed to find seats in former Norman Cinema turned KPC, located in downtown Kampala.

Behind the scenes, music director and producer, Ken Serukenya gathered the choir. Dressed in black, the choir circled the church reception area. It was almost time!

“Choir, thank you so much for coming” Ken said, “…I have learned the closer we get to God, the more our sins are exposed. Let’s dedicate ourselves to God.”

The choir was comprised of believers from all walks of life - students, teachers, businesspeople, accountants, lawyers, musicians, doctors, job seekers, housewives, employers, name it.

Ken continued, “Yesterday was amazing! God showed up. Let’s pray for strength and for God to be glorified again.” The choir lifted a resounding “Amen!”

Lights were turned off! Andrew (aka De’Angs) was the meticulous, serious sound man on duty.

The choir - soprano and bass at one entrance, alto and tenor at the other, walked in with lit candles that illuminated the auditorium like giant fireflies in the dark. The audience gasped.

God’s presence settled in the upper auditorium and flowed down to the stage like a royal robe – The King of Kings was in the building.  

Away on holiday, Pastor Gary and Marilyn Skinner placed Ken Serukenya in charge of the first local Christmas cantata production in KPC (now Watoto church).

A Civil Engineer by profession, Ken worked a regular job but also composed Christian music. Ken wrote every song then taught and directed five, two-hour long productions over three days at KPC.

On the first day of rehearsal, Ken picked a new cast of lead singers; Sheila Dorcus a senior four student, Rose an administrator at Ian Clark’s International Medical Center, Trinity a young man in the choir, and another lawyer who’d comfortably tucked himself in the back with the bass guys. The choir quietly exchanged looks as we all wondered what on earth had just happened. Under Ken’s encouragement and mentor ship the soloists owned the songs and sang them with passion.

Every day of rehearsal, every production, Ken brought all of himself to the choir, to the instrumentalists, to the actors and dancers, to the sound men and the audience.

1996 KPC Christmas cantata “From Heaven Above” was a year of firsts; - first African themed cantata, first live-music cantata, first dance-heavy cantata. From light ballerina moves in previous presentations to Ken’s “We must include dance” This was big!

Ken and I made our way to the Uganda National Theatre to buy beads and ruffle-skirts. He suggested dance moves and often checked on our progress. Would the Church embrace dance as an expression of worship? Would the moves stumble the crowds? How conservatively creative could we get with the costumes? What would Gary and Marilyn say? Whether these were questions on Ken’s mind, it’s hard to tell.

As music director he had a vision board and went about its execution. Following God’s rescue plan, the production started with Adam and Eve’s disobedience in the garden of Eden through the genealogy of Christ’s birth, His death and Resurrection.

Set to music, Ken scripted and taught Christ’s genealogy to the choir: “Abraham was the father of Isaac, Isaac was the father of Jacob, Jacob was the father of Joseph, Joseph was the father of Judah, Judah was the father of… was the father of…” until we came to Jesus and testified how He came into our lives. Now we knew our ABC’s and hoped that next time the audience would sing with us.

On the nights of, actors and dancers got into position. Butterflies fluttered in our bellies. The drumbeat set us in motion. Danstan, immersed in creating rhythm, rolled his drumstick over the cymbals and the butterflies floated away. We moved, we grooved. “From Heaven above, to Bethlehem, down the Nile, the Lord came down into my life.”

With Albert’s gentle hands on the keyboard and Abed plucking the bass guitar right on cue – the choir soared as Ken belted his signature tenor, “I have seen Him, I have seen Him – the Savior of the world as He promised in His Word…”

December 25^th, 1996 at 2:00 pm we closed out the last show exhausted but on a high. The lights came on, the audience clapped endlessly. Every space was occupied; the stairs were filled, all standing room taken and for a while there no one wanted to leave while some clueless people came in hoping for another show.

I got home to scraps of Christmas lunch, took a nap and later watched this movie about a Fiddler on the Roof? 😊

 

Namasagali productions and the impressionable years

Namasagali productions were the talk of the town. Around March, girls in brief red dresses flowered the streets of Kampala, especially near Uganda National Theatre.

I looked forward to this time of year, my brother would be home in the middle of school term – a change up from my mundane routine. He’d come with stories and lots of friends.

 

I attempted to hang out with his friends, they’d pinch my cheeks and tell me how cute I was. I felt prized, like I belonged in this group of boisterous, sexy, carefree grownups.

 

Sitting on the edge of the green worn out theater seats I’d marvel as my brother captivated the audience. He’d spin, leap and swing from one corner of the stage to the other in his leotard. His strong muscular frame moving to the rhythm of a song that rose from under our feet and out through each strand of hair on our heads.

 

A pretty girl also in a leotard would emerge, twirl and jump into his arms. He’d raise her into the air like an empty delicate pot – the magic! The audience clapped and I’d be like “Yeah! That’s my bro!”.

 

At the end of the show I’d walk out expecting to be greeted and patted on the back like I was the star. Like, “Did you see my bro? We live in the same house. Family genes please!”

 

Nobody knew me. The crowds gave accolades to the rightful owners.

 

I grew older. A shy, impressionable twelve-year-old girl.

 

At another production a girl strode on to the stage. Her tall, svelte frame captivated the crowds. Her skin was the color of dark chocolate – the darker the berry the sweeter the juice kind of beauty. Her posture and presence brought the building to a pause. Her confidence carried the auditorium.

 

Her dance moves had the audience in get-set mode. She’d mastered her lines.

 

It was easy to see she was all that – “Oil wells pumping in my living room” kind of sassy.

 

I admired her severely.

 

After the show and enshrouded in the crowds making their way out the theatre corridors, her beautiful face stayed imprinted on the ceiling of my mind.

 

I’m sure many girls wanted to be like her.

 

Something about artists portraying the best self we secretly desire.

 

In the theater’s restroom, I looked into the mirror.

 

A certain reality stared back.