My Name Is Imago Dei
Sometimes in Virginia when the scorching madness of xenophobia conspires
with a fragile, violent countenance, I fall to the darkest, bitter poison.
And in that carnage, a nation learns of impending destruction.
But the sounds of heaven like an unstoppable flood, poor over New Orleans and
comfort forlorn victims of embedded justice.
I am men, putting women in cages for birds, beautiful yet bound, loved but
unappreciated.
I am women, forsaking my sisters as they struggle to understand my privilege.
I tell you I am a paradoxical reflection of power and fear, love and vengeance.
And I am unstable.
And when the weight of unpaid wages reaches the precipice of doubt in young
impressionable prisoners of comparison, husbands shoot their children and run
to the abyss.
But I tell you there is a sound of redemption in Jill Scott prophecy and Bell Hooks’
gentle wisdom.
I tell you there is a sound of heaven that leaves me fearless, come what may.
Today, I went swimming with my daughter with a final exam the next day.
And in that moment, I knew that this crucible, does not rule me, bind me, or
define me.
Whatever this is, this unstable suffering of paradoxical reflection.
It does not rule me.
For I am an image of a sacrifice so sublime, that the gates of hell, pain,
conquest, or corporate idolatry cannot stand against it.
And in the end, I know peace forever.
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