Category: Navigating This Life

Copyright 2017 Theresa Harvard Johnson
(Read other articles in the AMAZING LOVE SERIES at Chamber of the Scribe)

Halloween time is like Christmas season in the Johnson household. Yes, I said that.

This is not because of what the holiday represents, but because it is the time of year that JJ, my son, can find a wide-selection of superhero costumes locally just to pick through and observe – even though we know he will choose either Superman or Ironman in the end.

It’s the highlight of this time of year for him and has been since he was two years old.

If I allow the religious ideals and condemning speeches of the “Christian-holiday-police” to have their way, the joy my family and I have of seeing him choose a superhero costume would go up in flames.

Article & Art Copyright 2017 Theresa Harvard Johnson
(Caps are for emphasis, not commands.)

Psalm 19:1-5 says, “The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands. Day after day they pour forth speech; night after night they reveal knowledge. They have no speech, they use no words; no sound is heard from them. Yet their voice[b] goes out into all the earth, their words to the ends of the world. In the heavens God has pitched a tent for the sun. It is like a bridegroom coming out of his chamber, like a champion rejoicing to run his course.”

Demonstration is the most powerful ministry exemplified from God’s OWN life and purpose as I see it. It is emulated fully through his own example, the example He passed down through Christ and the hope placed upon His greatest creation – humanity.

In this passage ascribed to King David, we learn that WORDS are not necessary to express the greatness of God. Rather, it is THE ABUNDANT LIFE well-lived. It is the life that is completely fulfilled in CHRIST’S ETERNAL FULLNESS. IT IS the same expectation that is proclaimed in all things HE CREATED AND COUNTED as good (meaning prosperous, purpose fulfilling).

Copyright 2017 Theresa Harvard Johnson

Wonder Woman reminds me of the beauty of childhood innocence if you grew up in the 70s. She wore a pretty cool headband, wielded a lasso of truth, wore a sword on her back, commanded an invisible jet and wore bracelets that could release untold power!

She was the superhero that offered escape from my darkened childhood. I would jump up and down as I waited for my 15-year-old brother to use the pliers to turn the broken knob on our black and white analog television set – just so I could catch the latest episodes from her groundbreaking show.

In between the fights at home and my mother’s severe, incapacitating schizophrenia, I became Wonder Woman’s greatest fan.

I would don my underoos (which were all the rage in 1977), grab my toilet paper roll bracelets (we would slit the sides so they would fit), put the rubber band from the collard greens around my head, grab my  jump rope lasso… and head to the “circle” in the center of the housing project where all the little kids would gather to play in the summer time.

Copyright 2014 Theresa Harvard Johnson

As a little girl, I didn’t have many heroes.

But like the generations before us we tend to admire people who, for whatever reason, spoke life and hope into our circumstances, described the societal highs and lows that defined culture and gave rise to revolutions. Maya Angelou, right alongside her deeply contrasting counterpart and fictional character – Nancy Drew, was one of those people to me. They rested in my “Writer’s Hall of Fame” right next to poets Georgia Johnson and Margaret Walker.

As a little girl I dreamed passionately of being a writer. In my play time I was a successful “investigative news reporter and poet” all at the same time. I was also black. Even at 11 years old I understood what that meant in the deep south, and in a household with parents who had survived the Civil Rights Movement and were getting used to not having to drink from “colored only water fountains” and ride in the back seat of the city bus. Their stories are forever engraved in my memory.

 

As I type this, I am fondly reminded of my old poetry books full of comments and notes sitting on the shelves behind me that taught history better than history books; that told stories broader than novels; and that spoke for my mother and father’s generation in a way that no documentary ever could. The truth of poets like Maya Angelou flow from the heart of passionate storytellers, those who understand what it means to “have voice” and “be heard.”