Free At Last!

Hello Winter!

Hello Winter!

I kind of picked up on it over my car radio driving home from work that the weather was going to change drastically. I didn’t really pay much attention. I was more than aware that it was a very cold night, so I missed seeing those white fluffy snowflakes drizzle down from the sky overnight.

I live in Houston, where we get excited over a slight drop in temperature. Seething, steamy days are what we’re used to. The nights are not any different.
‎This morning, we were thrilled! Overnight, the temperature dipped below freezing and it snowed. We woke up to snowy covered cars and rooftops, as well as newly white backyard lawns, with picturesque views of pine trees washed in snow; the kind that Christmas greeting cards are made of.

The last time it snowed out here was in 2009. The year prior, we had just arrived from California and my kids and I experienced our first hurricane. (Remember Hurricane Ike?) The benefit of daylight made the “snowstorm” of 2009 fascinating for those of us who’d never been around true winter weather. The snow from the “storm” froze over the windshield, which made defrosting an adventure of sorts. It took some ingenuity to get through it. This time around, it felt like beach sand in my bare hands as I safely scooped it off the windshield.

Back in August, we had another taste of a nasty hurricane. Harvey claimed my car as it hovered over the Gulf Coast for 2-to-3 days, focusing on Houston and its environs after making landfall in Port Arthur and Corpus Christi. Here’s an interesting pattern: between 2008 and 2009, Hurricane Ike and the rare snow incident; now this year, Hurricane Harvey and the snow last night. And that’s just four months apart!

Back to this morning: as I stepped out to leave for work (even though I’d have rather preferred staying home, in my warm bed) I was gleefully greeted by Frosty the Snowman, artfully put together by janitorial workers at my apartment complex, assisted by schoolchildren snowballing while waiting for their school bus to arrive.

As I marveled about a banner year of weather I’d seen — a year for fires, hurricanes and (mild) snowfall — the excitement was short-lived for me as I worried about the six major wildfires currently burning in our home state of California. I wished for a minute they could have the snow to help quench the treacherous threat facing them this moment. That put a damper on my excitement, knowing how many lives and how much property have been lost.

Mosaic of Hope.

You collect the tears the of hungry and the thirsty,
of the prisoner and the captive,
Of the wandering homeless,
even my tears of pain and shame,
and you weave them into this beautiful mosaic of hope
and love and peace.
Magnificent and superfluous in your ways,
in awe of you I breath.

Your goodness is the sound of many waters
crashing across my senses,
Flung through a trillion balls of fire,
from the smallest to the biggest of them all that sight can see
‎that shines on all creation and rains on all imperfect.
‎ Your goodness in display
‎transports the garment tassels
‎To heal a broken hope like the balm of Gilead
Across oceans and seas it flows
to soothe the hurt on earth transcends to life eternal.
Goodness responds to the violent suffered
To the broken in a thousand fragments
Stiched together by the scarlet flow
from the fountain of grace and mercy.

This is amazing grace
That takes the soles of my feet to tread
To claim many places trodden
The grounds of many nations, many cities
In those cities many lives.
If I claim anything, I claim them for you
For your desire, your purpose, your good.
If I claim anything,
I claim peace for the nations at war
love for the unlovable
Stoicism for mothers whose sons’ blood
Scream for respite for their sacrifice.
I claim for the homeless cities of hope
Shelters of outpouring love,
Leaders with the forthrightness and intergrity
To serve with selfless abandon,
The end to the ravages of war and the senseless death
Of the vulnerable, women and children
Weeping that their cities be returned to them
That their playgrounds be not a stench of carcasses.

I’d claim them all and lead them back home
to tranquil nights, boistrious days and playful sunsets.
I’d collect in these hands the tears of Syria, Ukraine, Haiti, Chicago
To the diaspora enslaved in Libya and pour them
As offering at your feet; I’d throw the prison doors open
To breath your freedom.
The doors of every orphanage will open into hearts of love
The unlatched entryways of domestic violence and abuse
Will match through the paths of freedom
to your unending, enduring love.
Break down the walls of pride,
leveling them to vestals of humility.
Obliterate the boundaries of color
Awash them in blood that speaks as one.
I’d take those bubbles that ensconce us
Deflate them so each seeps into the pain of

Breaking the Doors

Philip Arabome is a journalism major at Texas Tech University Lubbock, Texas and my guest writer on today’s blog. He’s taking on the trending issue of sexual harassment and abuse in the workplace, especially as it relates to big names in the media and entertainment industry crumbling like a pack of cards. I’m particularly glad to get a male perspective on the hottest topic of the moment.

Sensitive issues will be discussed. Reader discretion is advised.

As a junior in college, I attended a feminist rally. My reasoning was simple (and in bad faith): there was a persuasive, attractive young woman, the chairman of the board, who spoke with conviction about her steadfast dedication to feminism and women’s empowerment. Male allies were always welcome, especially in a culture that had women swimming alone when it came to talk about sexual abuse.

It had come to my attention that women might have a point.

Within months, I joined the feminist organization. As is my life’s passion, I had a desire to discover the truth: are women right? How pernicious was sexual abuse – assault, battery, harassment – in the daily lives of women? How valid was men’s reflexive defense against these accusations?

I dove in headfirst. I listened to numerous stories about sexual abuse. I read firsthand accounts by survivors. I asked myself, perplexed, why people would defend what couldn’t be an invented rape story. These girls must have vibrant imaginations, I thought to myself, or they’re not lying.

As I leaned in further, I, too, sided with the latter.

As the “MeToo” movement aims to steamroll the patriarchy by uncovering the inconvenient truth of sexual violence against women, titans of the glass ceiling have crumbled under its wheels. From Hollywood financial tycoon Harvey Weinstein to NBC News icon and Today mainstay Matt Lauer, men of considerable power have been uncovered. It has touched politics: Roy Moore, an ex-judge in Alabama who plays to an evangelical audience, is bombarded with accusations dating back to the 1970s, from women who were as young as 14, which could derail his senatorial bid this month. It has unraveled in entertainment: everyman Louis C.K., a comedic superstar with a considerable television profile, has been discovered to be a serial public masturbator and sexual predator. It even has made its home in alternative journalism: Vice magazine has been called out for the wide-ranging sexual power its superiors have held over their female subordinates.

It doesn’t have to be a man of note for it to be a distinctly male, power-based problem. It doesn’t have to specifically involve sexual power for it to be an issue: for generations abound, men have asserted their privilege and supremacy over women, rendering them docile or servile, never to challenge the power structure for fear of lack of respect or, worse, harm. The commercialization of post-World War II America was built on the myth of the pleasurable, amenable female partner-cum-servant, responsible for domestic production of both progeny and nutrition.

The voice of women strengthened with the rise of feminism in the 1960s and ‘70s. While the first wave, spanning the late 19th and early 20th centuries, concerned basic rights, such as self-determination and suffrage, the second called for a distinct and independent womanhood, not forged from standards ascribed to them by the marketing machine but of their own creation. This spirit carried young women from the universities, diploma in hand, to the workforce, eager to conquer the establishment and derive autonomy for themselves. That go-getter attitude is retained by most modern Western women, which has led to most campuses being majority-female.

However, it has remained as clear that women’s presence in the marketplace has not fully been recompensed with the requisite financial or social confidence. They are the secretaries and clerks; human resources managers; teachers and clerks; social media managers; vice presidents; and television personalities –their unique talents continue to be dictated by a masculinity that enforces the cultural borders, polices their tone, ascribes likeability and viability based on physical attractiveness and belittles their effort using terms both subtle and explicit. In short, women are in the workforce but not of it. There is a reason women earn 77 cents to a man’s American dollar: they are still playing from behind, confined to positions that both reduce their optimum value as performers in the marketplace and reinforce their value as docile, servile, quiet.

Equally as devastating for women is the culture that pits them 10 feet behind their male counterparts from the beginning. Not to speak of specific gender roles – despite the future personality quirks a child will acquire over time – but young girls are instructed to emphasize their personal looks (for the glory and desire of boys and men); not emphasize their personal looks (for the glory and desire of boys and men); never seem bothered by churlish male behavior; speak softly; and tacitly accept their role as the Gentle Gender, despite what their true personality belies. (For some at home, this may explain the current crisis with regard to understanding gender constructs, including LGBT sympathies.)

Men and boys, on the other hand, are welcome to be rambunctious and lawless. When adjusted for privilege (i.e. white) and power (e.g. fraternity member), the rules are off. Life is good; beer and drugs are great; sleeping with multiple women is a prime goal. I think back to an experiment done by a woman in New York a few years ago, in which she videotaped herself being “catcalled” – public, unsolicited verbal admiration of her body – by various men as she walked down the street. She wore nothing garish, nor did she attempt to draw any attention from the men she walked past (besides her existence, as if she was a piece of meat destined to be caught with a good punchline). For men, women exist in a limited space – to be docile (attractive, quiet, sexually pursued yet “pure,” “fun” yet noninvasive) and servile (sex upon request, hushed tones, accepting, motherlike, obedient). Best described by a former ESPN employee in a novel about her profession in the late 1980s: “We were supposed to look fun and f–kable.”

A woman who crosses these lines? Bitch. Slut. Shrill. She is reduced to an “emotional” person, insubordinate to the male-based rules of engagement. For this very reason, women often reduce themselves around more aggressive men, so as not to cross their hairs.

Which leads to tacit acceptance of problematic male norms.

Why do men rape?

The question comes across each time we learn about a publicized incident of sexual violence. Why would Brock Turner feel the need to violate a woman’s personal space, utilizing her incapacitation via alcohol, to fulfill and impose his personal pleasure without her clear-headed consent?

What about Bill Cosby? Weinstein? Patrick Kane or Derrick Rose or Ben Roethlisberger? The Baylor University football team? Duke University’s lacrosse program in 2006?

The game of cat-and-mouse following a prominent rape case always follows the same path:

  1. Public figure accused of sexual assault
  2. If beloved, public attempts to mitigate their disappointment by either victim-blaming, postponing judgment until formal conviction or outright denial
  3. If not beloved, public attempts to mitigate their surprise by the same as choice 2


Men are raised to believe they are invincible and immune to most things, including but not limited to: the law; death; destruction; bias; reason; emotion; violence; pain; suffering; and, especially, a woman’s rejection of their sexual or romantic advances. Every young Romeo in grade school was convinced he could “pull” as many of his female classmates as possible, which was reinforced by cultural and social myths in mass media, including music and television. The notion of the “alpha male” – a man who has reached personal, communal and (especially) sexual nirvana – became the fortress for which cultures were built upon. Libertarianism, for example, garnered followers with a promise of the total fulfillment of the American national fable: pure, rugged freedom. (It’s no surprise that 69 percent of its adherents are male and 95 percent are white.)

We begin to fuel the laggards among us with narratives – the infamous “nice guy” label comes to mind – which reduces certain unworthy men to beta status, perennially fruitless in traditionally hyper-aggressive dealings with women. A man who cannot hunt won’t eat, and the game is the seduction of the opposite sex. Countless numbers of men have confided in me their inability to “get laid” has reduced their self-confidence and terrorized their mind with fears of incompetence, impotence or outright bad luck. The toxic stew of cookie-cutter masculinity continues to drive men’s hostile attitudes toward women, a reductive hot-or-not passion play which derives negativity from both parties. How has Tinder worked out so well? You understand.

Am I suggesting all men who think like this rape? No. Sexual abuse and general female discomfort does not require clothing to be removed or appendages to be fondled; it is quietly approved with simple, presumably amicable gestures, such as hugs or shoulder-touching. There’s a reason H.R. departments are vigilant in policing physical contact in the workplace: the complete comfort and safety of employees, especially women, should be paramount. Cutting the small stuff can (should) mitigate larger physical problems. Yet they still happen, even beyond the boardroom.

I return to the notion of consent. Since men have been guarded without a leash for generations, there is an intrinsic desire to plot out methods of “getting laid,” which can border on criminal. Obfuscating the presumptive no – generally, by drinking copious amounts of alcohol, a staple of fraternity events – is a half-baked method of achieving the final goal while only feeling partially guilty about it. With greater university resources, such as Title IX, dedicated to combating sexual violence, it’s become a sport – trying to become more discreet without placing a spotlight on their sin.

Relative to this is my experience with women and their self-protection. Mace or pepper spray is a staple in any young woman’s purse. Headphones have become a discreet signal for disinterest in communicating with others, especially in large cities. In more abrasive situations, popular with conservatives and families, firearms usage is becoming more common. The amount of self-defense tools for women – and that’s after being told what to wear, how to walk and how not to draw unfavorable male attention – is contradictory to what little regulations are held by men.

That’s a problem. It fosters entitlement. An undesirable situation should not result in sexual violence; when men’s and boys’ more pitiless methods of courtship are normalized, women’s bodily and social autonomy is reduced – that’s as much of an economic issue as it is a social issue.

In modern feminism, there has been a push to be more vocal about what you can do with a partner, even for basic actions such as kissing. In our earlier years, this had to be implied (pretty heavily) and often was not for fear of rejection – again, rejection being the ultimate symbol of incompetence. Reverence for the right for one to exist, with full consent of contact and interaction, should be cherished and honored. For men to consistently miss the point, or (worse) belabor it, is to reinforce the culture of privilege and unchecked authority men have held over women for time eternal.

The culture that created Cosby, Weinstein, Moore, Lauer, Trump, me and you dates back farther than you imagine. The patriarchy evolves with time and season, reflecting itself in another botched H.R. case or a publicly litigated “false rape” claim. Heterosexual men consistently place their selfish sexual desires toward women over all other factors (even their careers), fueled by a society that claims women are equal but consistently behaves contrarily. This extends past assailants and into the hands of friends, allies and even women – a culture that must be deconstructed and unlearned, while alternatives are taught to future generations.

The question, of course, is if men will finally listen.

Guest written by Philip O. Arabome * Twitter: @PhilipArabome

Get People Help

Get People Help

Here’s an interesting fact: I’m not a pet person.

My last memory of pets in the home was as a child, living with my grandma: meowing kittens; purring cats; soggy milk; and a terrible smell I’ve never shaken off. I don’t hate animals. I’ve been inclined, more than once, to own or keep some, mostly because of my daughter.

When she was six, we were gifted a pair of dogs by a friend and lived with them for a week before their owners found them. We gladly took them back. It happened again when she was 14, but the $25 fee to just keep it in our apartment was a roadblock compared to the upkeep we would foot to care for it. I expect well-kept dogs and a clean, odor-free home – vet visits for vaccines, pet grooming and all. I wasn’t about to care for an animal like I would a human child.

I don’t know if I can be called an “animal lover” – as in “defending their right to exist” while living how I do: drinking cow’s or goat’s milk or eating steak, chicken or fish. I don’t want to sound like a hypocrite, even though there could be other things in my life I’m hypocritical about. We all do. I liken it to not supporting gun control, yet welcoming poaching of African tusks: I don’t think of myself as an “activist” for the ethical treatment of animals. I wouldn’t know how to define that in a logical, common-sense fashion.

I also don’t hold anything against overly doting pet lovers, but what about the ones who abuse their pets? What deranged minds! Yet, if someone I know loses their pet and posts about it on social media – and I don’t make the same comments as if a human passed away – am I being insensitive? I can’t pretend to feel what I don’t. I’m sorry you lost a pet, but I’m not going to pretend to be deeply moved by the incident. Don’t get me wrong: it’s not that I lack compassion for animals. There’s something bigger at heart.

For me, humanity is central. My concern circles that of my fellow beings. I believe many people treat animals better than humans; I struggle with that thought. There are those who spend thousands on surgery for pets, knowing their life expectancy is roughly one-sixth of a human being’s, and I could never understand why. I look at impoverished communities at home and abroad, wondering: Why can’t we do the same for people?

Is this just an American or North American or Western phenomenon? Maybe because of my background, even if my homeland has pets it was never as dire a situation for care as it is in the West. The culture of love and support I saw at home for people is used up on animals here. With all due respect, is there a social disconnect I don’t get?

Animals are God’s creation too. They’re cuddly, adorable and lovable and should be treated well. I understand. However, who comes first: your loved ones or your pets? How far should we go in displaying love for pets, knowing there are millions of human beings enduring far worse around us?

Children all over the world are dying from treatable medical conditions – or are in untenable circumstances and need help. Many others are in war-torn nations, befallen with death and destruction around them. There are children being abused, sold into slavery and sex trafficking.

Perhaps I differ from the crowd, but that is a crisis I truly am moved by. There will be those who dedicate their lives to saving animals, which is needed, but I need to let you know: don’t forget about people. They need help too.

I arise

I awake in dreadful tears borne
of longsuffering pain,
shame and failure untold.
But I arise to an enduring love,

A perfect love radiating like the sun
hurling away fears
Bearing hope for a new day.
I arise
To arms that languishing souls
That to depths of despair
drop! Catching humanity’s tears,

I arise
To your love,
Mending twisted, battered minds
bending away from shoel
From shame so

Broken you chose me, ‎
You called my shattered pieces to come together
Into this mosaic of your magnificence.

This new day,
‎my good shepherd’s voice
‎resounds and
my spirit quiets.
Peace sings sweetly within me,
Sweet as honeycomb,
His voice of love cocoons me.
prospering my twisted soul and
healing my broken body.

God’s pleasant surprises.

I had an experience recently that reiterated to me that God hears and answers our prayers. I’m sure many of God’s children really do believe and have had their prayers answered. But there have also been those times in our lives it felt like God wasn’t just there or was not listening or had forsaken us. If we’re really sincere, there’s hardly any praying person who hasn’t felt this way. If you journey with the Lord long enough, you’ll get there.
There’s been quite a few times in the recent past when I just wasn’t making a headway with God. I thought I must be praying amiss. Everything that could go wrong was going terribly bad. It would not just rain, but it poured down in torrents. I started to question my method of prayer and decided I’d do some research on how to pray.

In the process, I came across Rick Warren’s teaching on how to pray using the Lord’s prayer as a framework. I dug into the studies and began praying in the manner that the Lord Jesus had thought his disciples to pray. As I learned, “give us this day our daily bread” was an opening portion of the prayer teaching that covered more than just food provision, but other needs as well as our spiritual nourishment, I began to put that into practice.

On this specific day, I got up from my place of prayer desiring some suya.(kebab beef seasoned with so authentic Nigerian spice called yaji). From the blues I wanted suya like a pregnant woman in her cravings. I just whispered under my breath to the Lord that it would be nice to have some. It was a Saturday. I was going to take my car in to get the windows tinted.
I set out to get that done and I recalled there in that same vicinity, was a suya hut. I figured that after the tint on the car windows, I’ll go spend 20 bucks on some. The tint job concluded, I began my journey home only to remember about half a mile out that I didn’t turn into the suya spot. So, I gave up the idea and drove on home. So much for suya. I forget all about it. Not a big deal.

Sunday after church, I took a sister from church for a job interview at my cousin’s house. After the interview my cousin’s wife lit up with a big smile. “Auntie, I have something that you like. Something that you’ve asked me for several times before” She wanted me to guess. I thought for a few seconds; and I said so excitedly “suya”!!! Instantly, the proverbial light bulb lit up in my heart. I remembered my prayer the previous day . “Guess what?” I said. “I prayed for the Lord to provide me some suya yesterday and here he is with my answer today when I wasn’t even expecting it.” Everyone laughed it off. No it wasn’t a coincidence. They probably didn’t make much of it. But I did. I’ve come to recognize those moments when I’m being ministered to. This was one of those times. God cared enough to show me that praying for the little things is his will for his children.

Isn’t God awesome? That’s exactly how he operates in our lives. God confirmed to me in such a simple way that he not only hears my prayers but he answers them at the appropriate time. He has people you don’t even think he can use to bring our answers. Sometimes, they may be total strangers and at other times they may be people we know.
That was God speaking through my host. He’s the only one who knew I had asked for it. Hear her exact words: ” Something you had been asking for”. I had only asked him in a whispered prayer, not really expecting an answer because under the same breath I had plans to buy it myself. I thought it’s only $20 and I could afford it.

Now I realize, if I could afford it and went ahead to buy it, then that wasn’t God answering my prayers. A lot of times we don’t even give God the chance to answer. We try to help Him out. It’s me helping God. That’s the same mistake Sarah and Abraham made. They didn’t wait for the child of promise. Sarah tried to help God by introducing Hagar her maid servant to her husband. We have to trust that God will bring to pass what he has promised. We have to completely trust that when we pray, he hears us. We have to be patient as we wait on Him to come true for us.

God showed up when I lest expected him to. He surprised me in the most pleasant way. What I’m thrilled about is not so much the suya that he provided, but more so the manner, the timing, the confirmation to me that he is there and hears me even when I feel differently. The thought that he responds to what some may regard as mundane. It wasn’t like I was starving, or if I didn’t eat the suya that I would die. It’s just him proving to me his love, how he cares for us even when we express the most trivial desires. If he could provide suya that wasn’t any urgent need in my life, then he can definitely provide the bigger and most desperate need things we desire.
Jesus said, if you who are evil know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more would God? If your child asks for fish you would not give him or her a scorpion?

I share this with you because I believe God wanted me to know that he hears all my other requests. Just as I was surprised by the appearance of suya when I had completely forgotten about it, so will he also bring about everything else you and I have been believing him for. Stay in faith. Don’t despair. The answer is on the way. You and I may not know when, but he can be trusted. He will not fail. He is so faithful. What a mighty God we serve! Bless His Holy Name!!!
During all the process of doubt and wondering if God really could hear me? Someone suggested: Try praise when all else seems to fail.