The Color Purple

I saw an elder today, dressed for church with an enormous and bright hat.

I was walking with a work colleague but stopped to say,

“You wearing that hat, ma’am! You wearing that hat!”

Mama smiled and laughed. I kept walking.

My white coworker asked why I had pointed out the obvious.

I turned to her, saw confusion.

Did you know that purple is a trick of your mind? An optical illusion created by the brain bending what it knows of light into a circle until red and blue meet?

“I think it pisses off God if you walk by the color purple in a field somewhere and don't notice it."

“I…” she tried to look deeper into me and struggled with sharing her next statement, “I don’t really believe a god exists.”

I found my mouth felt dry. I swallowed. “It meant she looked good. It meant the hat looked good.”

The revelation, the embarrassment washed over her. She stood motionless and color climbed into her cheeks.

“You should breathe. Your face is…”

“Purple…” she forced a smile.

I was pointing out the obvious.

What is Missing

My wife is traveling for work. I write a lot. Someone I love asked me if I missed her. I wrote about that.

What is missing? The bed feels foreign, I keep waiting for a weight to drop in behind me, to sigh and say, “I’m ready to be heldddddd.”

I lie there a long time waiting for it, but also knowing it won’t happen.

I wake up and pray. No one slides to my sliver of bed to be close to me, hugs me around the middle before I leave the room so they can fall back to sleep. I still tiptoe around trying not to make too much noise, still sit and wait to hear her go into the bathroom.

But the bed is just empty. I roll over and over the idea, telling myself she’ll be back in a few days, she’s probably doing the same neurotic things, that I’m not so dependent on someone but I’m lying.

Is that what missing is? I don’t really think so; I haven’t missed anything. Every second seems longer and longer and I can account for each one. It’s all waiting, just waiting for her to fill these spaces.

The Haitian Prayer

Today, I’m reminded of a housekeeper I worked with in West Palm Beach. We had just informed the team that the hotel was rebranding from what was arguably the most well respected luxury brand in the industry, to something new — which to many assembled lacked the same sense of security.

I stood there a moment with the all the housekeepers gathered soon after the news was broken, wondering what encouragement I could give these ladies and gentlemen to comfort them, to spur them into action in these last moments we still carried a noble name. I was young, passionate, but without words. I could feel the weight they carried, and I began searching for some relief.

Ms. Carmen was an elder; a small and thin Haitian woman who’s entire face was eyes and smile.

I looked at Ms. Carmen and began with a question, “Who are you?”

It was rhetorical. I found a speech on the back of my tongue about the hard work they had done, the reputation they had earned. It was all honesty, all pulled from my history of carefully watching orators, pastors, moving professors... “Who are you?”

As I closed I came back to the question and back to Ms. Carmen. I could tell I had the room and, at least in that moment, they were motivated and hungry. I passed the floor to the Elder Haitian for benediction and received what is one of the simplest and yet most powerful prayers.

Ms. Carmen smiled sweetly and closed her eyes to answer my hypothetical question. She gripped hands with those to her sides and prayed, “I am God’s beloved.”

There are great poems I’ve memorized, stretches of bible verse, but when life feels as several small stones come together and planted as one weight on the heel of my neck, I always return to Carmen in that moment. I remember the prayer she lifted up that made the whole of the world a bit brighter...

I am God’s beloved.