The Gift of Remembrance
Probably 15 years after the original recommendation, I recently had my wisdom teeth removed. To call me reluctant would be an understatement. But as one birthday after another passed and the risk increased that my lower left third molar would decay, the writing was on the wall. So it was with my head tilted to heaven and mouth annoyingly wide open that I accepted that there was no turning back. Each time pressure was applied to my gums to twist away at one of the four naughty teeth set for exodus, though mostly numb from a local anesthetic, the dentist told me to go to my happy place. Maybe as you would have, I assumed mentally escaping to a beachy scene or imagining another kind of tranquil destination would overtake me, but it did not. Instead, a childhood episode replayed when while on the front pew at church, as a little girl who was likely swaying slightly offbeat, I joined the congregation in singing Aretha Franklin’s version of “How I Got Over,” while the choir marched into the sanctuary.
“And I want to thank him for how he brought me
And I want to thank God for how he taught me
Oh thank my God how he kept me
I’m gonna thank him ’cause he never left me
Then I’m gonna thank God for ‘ole time religion
And I’m gonna thank God for giving me a vision
One day, I’m gonna join the heavenly choir
I’m gonna sing and never get tired.”
It would only be much later in life that I finally began to understand even a morsel of the lyrics’ powerful meaning. The full extent of God’s promises won’t be revealed until eternity comes to pass. That’s the harsh, tension-laced truth Christians embrace. The marvelous Kingdom of God is both already and not yet.
Now with four decades of living behind me, no longer a little girl with pigtails and barrettes flying everywhere, I am increasingly compelled to pay homage to the rich examples of faith I was blessed to observe in church, each and every week. The matriarchs along my sojourn were unsung, but no less influential or devout than those whose names history has jotted down. These women taught me not only about how the Israelites made it over and crossed the Red Sea, they modeled an incomparable determination to embody their own callings of exhortation, leadership, evangelism, teaching, and preaching. These Black women and Black Baptist women at that, pillars of the Black church tradition, were missionaries, nurses, prayer warriors, Sunday School superintendents, mothers to abandoned children, and perfectors of ushering with dignity for days, plainly spreading the Good News of Jesus wherever they found themselves. Plus, they had limitless supplies of the best candies the world has ever known, always at-the-ready in their purse, in addition to a good pinch if you needed help paying attention.
Though born in the Palmetto State and proud of the southern accent that still lingers, my story hasn’t been nearly as predictable or homogenous as some of my peers. A lot has changed since my dedication as a bawling baby at Springfield Baptist Church, only to then spend a number of years in Texas. I went on to experience living on the East Coast, which led to engagement and now 14 years of marriage to my husband. But even our journey as a couple continues to be unique. Still, no matter where the call of God takes us, one place remains as familiar as the sound of my mother’s voice: the church. It has its issues, but I always feel at-home and affirmed in the house of God. My adoption as a daughter of the King makes space for me, even when others exclude or even disinvite me. I remain grateful for space provided at Holy Communion where, with the breaking of wafers and guzzling of grape juice, all in Christ can remember what has been done on our behalf, yes, while also being emboldened with the hope of Jesus’ triumphant return.
I have worshipped in store-front churches and concert-type venues that hold thousands, historic predominately African American churches and mainline White churches, and so many additional iterations that I lost track years ago. My Baptist convictions have found harmony with an eclectic canopy of orthodox liturgy, hymns, and spiritual practices. My cup overflows anytime the Doxology is sung at the end of service. Before the pandemic, my husband and I were fortunate to attend a church where over 100 nationalities are represented in the congregation. What a beautiful foretaste of heaven, as people of all nations, tongues, and tribes raise their hands to praise the Lord our God?
Even when life gets hard, and it does get hard, my soul reflects on God’s goodness. I know what He has done for me and continues to do. Because of Jesus’s death, resurrection, and ascension, I am a recipient of salvation’s amazing gift and the ability to live a more abundant life that faces suffering head on. Having wisdom teeth pulled isn’t fun and the recovery can be tough, but none of that compares to the enduring benefits. As Christians, we will experience the painful disorientation of life’s dangers, toils, and snares, yet it all offers necessary prompts to remember that we have only gotten this far by faith.
Renata Ellis lives in British Columbia, Canada with her husband, James, a pastor. She loves connecting with other women, mentoring, blogging, and especially eating ice cream.
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