Diamonds in the sky.

 Shine bright like a diamond
Shine bright like a diamond

Find light in the beautiful sea
I choose to be happy
You and I, you and I
We’re like diamonds in the sky

~ Rihanna

____________________________

Someone spoke words that hurt my feelings today. They didn't mean to, I'm sure. And I really shouldn't care, right? But still. I am human and those words were hurtful.

Simple enough, those words were. Three words to be exact.

"She's in denial." 

Denial. You know, that first stage of grief that Kubler-Ross described in her stages of grief. The one that can either be the "this did not happen!" kind of denial or the "I'm doing fine!" kind of denial. I suppose the idea is that I'm in the latter of these two.

Let me be clear. I feel certain that this person did not mean to be anything other than concerned. I also think it probably wasn't meant for my ears but somehow, like things sometimes do, it found its way there.

"She's in denial." 

Well. For the record, I am fully aware of what has happened. I recognize that heart disease is a ruthless thief and that my family is not immune to it's sticky, prickly grasp. Not even the youngest of my family. My eyes are wide open to the fact that my sister, Deanna, is no longer a phone call away from me and that she will not, under any circumstances, be coming to ring my doorbell or pick up my children. I am aching in the deepest parts of me from knowing that my parents have to know what it's like to call funeral homes asking if the effing death certificate is ready yet and I'm feeling frustrated as hell when I haven't managed to intercept such a task and do it myself before they get to even think of it. Not because I'm in denial. But because it's the right thing to do. And because I realize fully that what my mother and my father are going through is in no way the same thing that I'm going through. Hell no, it's not.

That I know for sure. And dammit, if they can lift their heads, I know I can. Thankfully, I haven't had to coach myself to do that, thanks to my faith.

"She's in denial."

I texted JoLai and told her how I was feeling about that. She replied:

"I'm sure a lot of people think that about us."

I stuck that on a mental post it note.

Here's what I know now:  Grief looks very different to different people. A lot plays into that. Faith. Regrets. Unresolved beefs. And just who you are.

And let me tell you something--I've found out a LOT about who I am in this situation.

I am a woman of faith. I am. I am not this uber-strong person with emotions of steel. I have cried when I want to cry. I have buried my face in a pillow and shook until I was exhausted. But every single time, no matter how much I try otherwise, I am reminded of how blessed I have been in this life and that DEANNA was a tremendous part of that.

Can I just unpack for a minute? I'm sorry but I need to.

This is what faith is all about. To me, it isn't about how many rituals you can follow or whether or not you have a big shiny crucifix hanging from your necklace. It isn't about your denomination or how many men or women are leading your church. It's about the quiet times, the alone times. The personal moments where it's you and your faith and nobody else. Not a clanging cymbal or a fast clapping choir or a Holy Ghost filled preacher standing in a pulpit. When it's all said and done, it's about a personal trust and relationship with God. Period.

So, for me, this is what I call a faith walk. Evidence of things that eyes have not seen.

But there are some things that my eyes have seen.

Like, my life so far. You know? My life is a good life. I have a fantastic husband with whom I am madly in love. Two amazing sons, one of whom jumped up and hugged my waist after I finished eulogizing my sister on Saturday and the other of whom repeatedly gave me thumbs ups from his seat on the front row complete with a six year-old perforated grin. I have parents who have not only loved me and my siblings unconditionally, but who also had the resources to help us succeed at nearly everything we tried. I have scores of very good friends and a close circle of very best friends who would stand in front of traffic for me on any given day.

But wait--there's more.

I have the job of my dreams teaching medical students and residents and caring for unforgettable human beings at historic Grady Hospital every single day. I have been extremely successful in my career, have been on CNN more than five times, local television too many times to count, and even in the freaking Oprah magazine. I have talents that I am not only aware of but that I strive to use daily. And those talents have been recognized by others.

I'm grateful for that. And not in denial about this being a big, big deal to have so many blessings stacked up on one person.

Still don't believe me?

My kids go to an amazing school in an amazing neighborhood. My home is one that if it weren't the one I lived in, that I'd probably drive by rubbernecking at each day wishing it were. But it is. Mostly because my husband has also been successful in his career as an entrepreneur and, despite the wretched economy, has still managed to provide the majority of what we have. I can fit the clothes I wore in medical school twenty years ago, I like how I look and I like who I am. I even have the world's greatest hair stylist who never, ever messes up my haircuts and who happens to also give kick ass advice.

And. My siblings and I grew up nurtured and close. We had spats here and there but have always found a way to stay together. We even got to all be at Tuskegee University at the same time--excelling in four completely different departments and sharing the same college memories. All four of us completed terminal degrees--a Doctor of Veterinary Medicine, two Juris Doctors and one Doctor of Medicine. All products of public schools in inner city Inglewood and of one household.

Sure. This is a testament to our parents, yes. But more--in my opinion--it's ALL God's favor and a part of a bigger plan. That's a lot to be thankful for, don't you think?

It's funny. No one accused me of being in denial when I woke up to all of the blessings I just listed. No one shook their head and tsk-tsked me, feeling confused or worried then. But see, to me, all of that is far more astounding than my attitude during this walk through the valley since November 15.

Yeah.

There's this psalm I like that includes these words:

"Search me, O God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts."  - Psalm 139:23

 Even though it's one of my favorites, this psalm always kind of scared me. Now? I'm no longer as afraid of that charge as I used to be. I'm not.

Perhaps some don't see my anxious thoughts, but He does. He also knows my heart.
 
Sigh. So what am I supposed to say? I haven't done this before, so I'm just doing what feels right. I am very, very effing sad that my beloved sister is not here on earth. That's true. And missing her sucks. But my faith, blended with the kindness of others and the closeness of my family, has propped me up and made me stronger. Stronger than what seems even logical.

Logical to me. Logical to most.

But faith walks aren't so much about logic, you know?

Look, man. All I can do is surrender to where I'm at. Where I am is in a place that is saying, "I didn't question the heaping helping of blessings I've received and continue to receive--how dare I question this?" I've asked God to show me what to do and to order my steps. This is all that you are seeing, hearing and reading.

That might change at some point. But you know what? It might not. Only time will tell. But it still kind of hurts to be psychoanalyzed in the meantime.

Yeah.

One other thought--perhaps this process could be helping someone else. Giving them a different idea on what grief looks like. I'm not doing this for that reason. Instead I'm just trying to process all of this in the best way I know how. For me, that involves writing and sharing with a community of thinkers.

And I do realize that my community of thinkers do not all share my faith perspective, but that's okay. I think seeing different perspectives of faith is good for all of us. Like, when my friend Lisa B. asked me today what it meant when she saw hands reached for the sky during gospel songs and during prayers at Deanna's memorial service. And when I asked her about the swiftness of the funerals in Judaism and how best to support her when she sat shiva after her mother departed.

So we live. We grieve. We love. We learn.

It's all we can do, you know? In the way that works best for us. And me, I've never fit into any standard box or cookie-cutter version of how to be. So I'm feverishly writing and I'm letting all kinds of music minister to my soul from people like JT and Rihanna and Maxwell and CeCe Winans and Daryl Coley. I'm doodling on a pad of paper while talking to friends and I'm walking through my (dream) neighborhood meditating or praying while feeling those crunching leaves under my feet. I've been doing all of those things and somehow, through it all, still shining like diamonds in the sky.

Yeah.

Uggh. I'm rambling. I know. But I warned you that I would need you for this. So thank you, okay? I mean that.

Here's the reality:

Three weeks and four days ago, I held the phone as my mother turned onto my sister's street and discovered her car parked and unmoved. Three weeks and four days ago, I stood outside in my sister Deanna's driveway holding my brother as we both collapsed to the asphalt and clung to the back of my mother's head as she did the same. Three weeks and four days ago, I picked up my cell phone and called my father to tell him that, I think, maybe his daughter might not be alive and to please brace himself. And three weeks and four days ago, we found out for sure that she had transitioned from her earthly body and that she would no longer be with us in the way that she had for nearly all of our lives.

And since that time, a world of people have prayed for us, thought of us, and sent that energy out into the universe for our parents and all of our family to grab. We have walked through fire and rain and will for a while. We have clung to each other and to our faith. And mostly, we are better than people would expect.

Is that called denial?

Hmm.

I just realized that it doesn't even matter. It just is.

***
 Happy Monday. Again.

Now playing. . .love this song . . . .thanks Biz.