Letting Go

My baby girl turned 1 last week.  I can hardly believe it. What in the world is happening? I stare at her pictures, in a near-obsessive way... especially the one of the day she was born, the one of the moment she was “air-lifted” out of me, as I Iaid on that cold table in pain, full of anxiety and full of joy. Oh, so much joy. So much relief that she was going to be ok. In spite of her heart rate that had gone from the healthy rapid force-full boom-boom-boom to the decreasing boom….boom…boom with every contraction that wracked my body, terrifying my husband and I…as we listened to our mid-wife’s calm but firm voice that our “birth plan” was going to be thrown out the window, and instead, I was to be rushed to the hospital, to have the worst – a c-section. (Looking back, it certainly was not the worst thing that could have happened, but truly "sacred" medical intervention, to make sure that my baby would come out just fine). 

BUT. When you have had 12 (yes twelve!) birthing classes in the way of “au naturel” and 3 breast-feeding classes claiming that the only good and perfect way to have a child is "au naturel" (and by all means, say no, no, to the epidural that will be forced down your throats by current-money-hungry doctors and the medical industry), of course you are devastated when you hear your great carefully articulated birth plan has gone to muck in all of 5 minutes. No time to get my special blankie, no time for the music, the soft lights, the birthing tub, the exercises on the ball, the many anticipated hours of labor. Of course we had braced ourselves. Ok, let’s be honest I, as the woman, especially, had braced myself for the worst kind of pain that I imagined could ever imagine. My husband had done a more-than-stellar job in preparing himself too (and he read way more Baby-prep books, diligently than I did myself), in preparing for our baby's coming...and for my pain, and the pain, he was sure I was going to inflict upon him, as I pushed and pushed to bring our baby into the world. 

But none of that happened. 

The pain was oh so very different. It wasn’t what I had imagined at all. The  "before", the "during" and the "after" -- oh, gosh that recovery from surgery was harsh and hard. It was realer and harder and completely unexpected, unplanned for.   There was no Birth Plan B if Plan A didn’t go as planned and with that came pain, I had no idea what to do with. And it’s been a year.  And I am finally able to write about this beyond sharing my true heart with a couple of sacred friends – covenant sisters I call them.

I had to let go then -- that day when Hadassa was born. I have to let go now. And so does she. I guess we both do. Originally, I thought this was going to be a post solely about weaning (letting go) and breast-feeding and how slowly but surely, weaning time is on it’s way, and quite frankly, (sorry precious one), is here now. Not in a cold-turkey way, like it was on the day of her birth, but still I kinda really need her to start learning to let go. Bit by bit, one little meal at a time, so that she can start eating  only “Big Girl’s” food “comme une grande fille!”

Letting go. 

The one thing outside of our Great Birth Plan, (tongue in cheek) my husband and I had fully agreed upon  prior to the birth, was that we were going to go with our Birth Plan as much as is possible,  and if her life was to be in danger or anything like that, we would throw the Plan without any hesitation – and we did just that. The only problem, is that when we threw it out (well, and we didn’t have a choice), there was no real replacement – as far as breathing exercises, pelvic rocks, favorite songs etc etc.  We let go of our plan, and threw ourselves, at the mercy of God and the careful team of doctors who were going to make sure that our daughter came to us safely. I guess our plan became,  "God, however You allow this child to come, we'll do it."

Letting go is a funny thing. 

It takes shape in a variety of ways. Sometimes, when it’s time to let go, there is often not much warning, and the thing just happens. Like with the birth of my baby. We were chatting with the midwife around 10 am, got to the hospital around 11 and at 12:16pm, my baby was born. And then, at other times letting go, is quite the process, over a period of time, you come to realize that the thing you really depended on for blank, you don’t need anymore. And the Lord will provide. As much as I say to my husband or close friends, “I can’t wait to be done nursing” --  I worry a bit, that when I do, what will replace the closeness me and my baby girl have? How will we bond then? And will she enjoy any food as much as she enjoys and seems to be satisfied with breastmilk? I mean the girl, really likes to nurse. Those are real thoughts that I have as a first-time mom. Yet won’t God provide great nourishing foods for her? Won’t he provide a new and different sort of bonding between the two of us? Won’t he provide another plan for connection? I know and trust fully that He will.

Weaning is seemingly going to be one of the hardest challenges that my daughter has been faced with thus far, in her short little life, and here will be my newest (though not quite first) opportunity to help her understand that God will provide all of what she needs. Even if doesn’t feel so great to her at first.

One thing to console ourselves, as we consider letting go: we can begin to be more open to letting go because thankfully, the end result is always the same. Something new comes. That’s the only way, to experience new, in fact, is to let go of the old. For example, if Haddie stayed 5 months with her cute gurgles forever, at what I then felt was the peak of her cuteness,  I’d never get to experience her absolutely delightful pre-talk expressive and loud chatter – nearly rivaling my own! I wouldn’t get to enjoy her careful pronunciation of her name, imitating exactly as she hears her Papa and I say it. So, letting go has many benefits. 

Above all, letting go, as I learned about 1 year ago at the birth of my darling girl, brings about new life. Healthy life. Strong life. Boom-boom-boom-boom. Rapid and good heart-beat. I sigh with relief and abounding joy at having let go.

Achlaï Ernest Wallace

On Self-Care and True Spirituality

One of the hardest things in my life, is self-care. I believe I have struggled with this with much of my adult life. It is SO easy for me to listen to other people, counsel countless of young women, listen to story after story of Black young women leaders and give advice, encouragement or just offer my ear or heart through the gift of listening. It is much easier for me to change my now 11^th month-old’s diapers, keep her change, fed and happy, than to get up and go for a walk, make myself a healthy meal with all the 4 food-groups, going light on the carbs or go to sleep early/at a reasonably normal hour. Why is this? I often ponder. Why is it so hard to eat the foods that are healthy and good for my body, and yet so very easy to skip a meal, start breakfast later than I should and eat not-so great later on in the day, than I ought?

Today at church my Pastor preached in part, out of Romans 12:1, where the Apostle Paul admonishes us to “present our bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and pleasing to God; this is your spiritual worship.” I think I pride myself on being a “spiritual  person”, a “woman of the Word”, but yet would rather clean my house, wash the toilet than take adequate care of myself. What’s really going on? Or should I say, what’s up with that?

I’m not sure I know all the answers to that – maybe it’s a deeper counseling issue that I need to explore, but in the interim, I know that something has got to change with me. I’ve been knowing it, and at times make huge strides, only to fall back to similar/old patterns of lack of self-care, over and over again. I deeply want this to change. But what will ultimately make the difference?

I don’t know very many things in this life. But I DO know a few things. I DO know that GOD CAN DO ANYTHING. He is Almighty, and if He is good enough and gracious enough to have blessed us with a baby girl, after waiting for 7 years, surely He can continue to work on my heart and help  me see me as He sees me. A beautiful daughter of the King of kings, worthy of being loved, valued and deserving of good health, of good respite, and physical wellness, just as much as  emotional and spiritual wellness. Hmmmm. I pause here to say the obvious: do I really believe that?

Somewhere along the line, have I believed that the emotional, mental and spiritual are more important than how I take care of my body? It would seem so. After all, as it is often said: “don’t tell me what you believe, show me what you believe.”  And the way that I have lived – not always, -- but for waaaay for too many pockets of my life - would apparently point to the reality that for some reason, I have not really believed that my body does matter as much as my emotions or spiritual health. Somewhere along the line, have I believed that it doesn’t matter too much what I put into my body, as long as I’m emotionally and spiritually ok? Yep. It would seem so.  Somehow, I havn’t lived like  Romans 12:1 is true. But here I have to agree with God that I have been wrong. That spirituality is not just about what goes on inside of me.

What does it mean to be “spiritual”? I am sure there are a variety of answers to this, but Romans 12:1 is quite simple and refreshingly clear: to offer my body to God. To offer my body, and my entire self to God, is indeed what it means to be spiritual. 

To offer my heart, soul, mind and physical self to Him.  To ask Him to change me from the inside out, and give me a new perspective on my physical health, to truly present my actual body and honor Him, by the way that I eat, do physical activity to strengthen and bring my body to good physical health, as well, as by the way that I rest.  So I have to agree with God. God says, taking care of my actual body is spiritual. Wow! And so when I get up to go for a rigorous, vigorous walk tomorrow morning, it won’t just be so that I can look good the next time I wear a bathing suit (though that won’t hurt eitherJ ) – but it’ll be primary, because that is what it means to live my life for God, and not myself. I'll be taking that walk because  taking care of my body is actually a spiritual act of worship to Him.

I want to be an example too, to my daughter that life is not just about caring for others – but that I, and later on that she, herself, -- matters too. In fact, if I want to care even better for others, perhaps the best way of doing that, is to actually take the appropriate amount of time to take care of myself first. So, spiritually, by slowing down with meditation on God’s Word and worship. Emotionally, doing daily breathing exercises and by taking the time to speak to someone about my own personal issues and things that are on my heart. Finally physically, with  daily good activity, eating well, resting and sleeping. You’d think I know all of this wouldn’t you? And yet sometimes, it’s got to be back to the basics.

So, in this upcoming Fall time, as I get ready for the busyness of home and family life, ministry and school, I think  -- no -- I know the call of God for me is to prioritize self-care, in the ways that He leads me. And that too is an important part of the Kingdom of God. True spirituality, means trusting that God is big enough, and great enough to take care of all these others, when I pause to rest, to shower, to eat well, to exercise. 

Will I do this physical/self-care thing perfectly? Never in this life-time. But just as God gives me grace to do the hard heart work of keeping my heart free of grudges against others, forgiving regularly,  asking for forgiveness, as well as doing the work of offering my heart to God in worship over and over again, as imperfectly as it is, so too, it is in His grace, I can practice over and over, the true spirituality of presenting my physical body to the Lord.

In fact, it is His call, His idea, that worship would flow from me truly offering myself, my heart, my mind and my body specifically – to Him.

May it be so, in this season, one day at a time.

Achlaï Ernest Wallace

The Gift of Family

I am  currently visiting my family in Montreal, Canada. The richness and abundance that I have gotten to experience since being here is limitless. As I enter into my childhood home, that I have lived in, from the age of 8 years old until I married, the house seems strangely smaller, the kitchen barely able to hold my siblings and my bigger bodies. And yet, the same familiar smell of anise and cinnamon fills the kitchen as my father makes our beloved childhood porridge -- "labouy" at night. On another early afternoon, the smell of “bouillon” being cooked in the big “baume” (big pot) makes my mouth water, as I anticipate eating the “dumbywe” (Haitian dumplings), “bunun” (yellow and green plantain, carrots, “epina” (spinach),  in the chicken-based rich broth, tender pieces of chicken with the bone-in. Much of visiting home surrounds feasting with family, and as I introduce my daughter to her aunties, uncles and cousin, I am pleased that she seems to love the various savory dishes. Her little mouth scrambles to keep up with the many new tasty delights to her palate. For example, the perfect flaky “pâté” (spiced-beef-filled salty pastry), her father gave her bits of, after our Sunday morning Service as is customary in our Haitian-style-cultured church.

The gift of seeing my family enjoying her, and being enjoyed by her almost brings tears to my eyes, and having her here brings this trip home to a never-before happiness, and a whole new level for me.

But most of all, what I rejoice in, is seeing her with her Mommie Cie-Cie and Pappy Gesner, her grandma and grandfather, my parents. The joy in their faces is unlike anything else I've experienced, and she makes their heart melt. As she learns to give them “bahs” (kisses) and decides she wants to do that everytime she sees them, brings smiles all around. It’s amazing how they are putty in her hands. :) Gone is the stern but kind (but seriously stern, lol) parents I once knew. Instead it’s “Addie-die-die” and “viens trouver Pappy” (come find grandpa!). In all seriousness, though, it’s rich, rich, rich, to see how my daughter brings something out in my father that I have not quite seen before. A fierce yet soft and tender pride, at his granddaughter who delights to climb all over him, prod his face, and passes her hand over his head as she discovers her Haitian family! What happens inside my own heart? A deep, deep gratefulness that I get to be a part of an incredibly loving and kind family, with a solid foundation, getting to celebrate our parents 40th marriage anniversary just last week with close friends and family. Not having known my own grandparents very well, my heart is overjoyed that my daughter has gotten to meet her grandparents and is getting to spend extended time with them, as we live in another country and so many kilometres away. The gift and blessing of family is unlike any other, and I am deeply grateful to the Lord that, we who don’t get to dictate at how much time we have on this earth, have been given this time as my parents grow older. Mesi Bon Dye. Thank you God. My heart can scarce take it all in.

- Achlaï Ernest Wallace

p.s. see? pure joy below! :)

Pictures from when Haddie was just born...I'll post pictures from our trip in a future post!

When Enough is Enough: Black lives are sacred

My daughter turned 9 months last Friday. I celebrated simply by telling the people we saw that day and the surrounding days. 9 months is a big miles-stone time-period. We are pregnant for 9 months, (more like 10) and then new life begins outside of the body.

Barely one week later , I awake to the insane news that a shooting happened in the state that touches mine, in a church. In a Church. Killing life. Killing 9 lives. At a Bible Study. I'm a church girl, grew up in the church and have been to probably a million Bible studies in a setting just like that one. The all-Black church that I was born into met every Wednesday night -- just like that. Around some old tables in the musty-ish basement where they randomly sometimes had lemonade and cookies, along with the Study if we were lucky. I especially liked those nights when they had a snack. I know how it goes, a small group of people, extra dedicated to the work, often with just a little extra hunger to the things of God, desiring to connect and be faithful. None of them knew that their regular mid-week meeting, where they encourage everyone to attend, new and old, would end in this way. Yes our hope is in GOD, alone, and at the the same time, we have to live in this hostile racial climate, just as these brothers and sisters, victims of this man's hate, unsuspecting that their world was going to be shattered that night.

Where will the world be in 9 more months?

To think that this is the world I have to offer her? A world with people who simply hate, and I mean hate with a pure hatred, Black people??? It is still mind-numbing to think, this could have been a number of settings that I am accustomed to being in. Yes, where I often go, to find peace and serenity in. To worship God with others.

My white brothers and sisters in Christ seem strangely silent. And it bothers me. I don't know that I can go to one more setting with them, where they say nothing. Where I have to be the one to bring it up. Where it goes over their head. Where the subject quickly shifts to what movie we're going to watch this weekend, what types of recipes are we using lately, how delicious the brownie tastes...I just can't. I just can't be that Black friend, for anyone right now, of which I know, I'm their only one, and that's why they have NO CLUE how to navigate these waters. Well, the reality is that, I don't either. I've not been here before. None of us have. But like so many other things, they get to check out if they want to. Or avoid the subject altogether. For us, it's on all of our minds, and if we're the church-going type, it'll be on our minds for a very long time. 

Where are we safe? Several amongst of us have asked already. On Twitter, on Facebook. Wondering, is there not anywhere that we can go anymore, that is considered sacred, a safe space?

Since this is a themed blog, where I focus on my journey as a Black woman, journeying through motherhood as,  mother, my first social challenges have already arisen.  How will I introduce my sweet little baby girl, Black baby girl to these harsh realities? When will be the first time, that I have to wipe her tears as folks say stuff to her they have no business saying? Will I be able to protect her from  the ignorance, loud silences from the white Church about who she is, how she too is created equal and beautiful in the image of her God?  

I don't care what  some insane-actioned white people think.  I will always teach her that she is beautiful and beautifully made on purpose, as a Black person. This leads me to the terrible atrocities that is currently happening in the DR towards my people. I will fight against this message that Haitians are an undesirable people  and are to be shunned from the only country that thousands have known for generations.  Why are we bent on proving that one group is better than the other? Why can't we accept and embrace that the God of creation has created beautifully both Dominicans and Haitians? As a Black Canadian woman of Haitian descent, I am a very proud Haitian-Canadian unapologetic woman, about my heritage. My daughter's heritage, as well. When she reads these posts and articles about how Haitians were kicked out by Dominicans, or treated badly by the Bahamians, I want her even before she learns this foolish history that is being created, that Jesus made her very intentionally, the daughter of a Haitian-Canadian, knowing full well that she would therefore, amongst her other cultural/ethnic heritages, be Haitian too, have Haitian blood running through her veins. That was not an accident nor a mistake.

The young man who killed those 9 people in Charleston, the Dominicans who choose to actively hate  and shun their neighboring countrymen, the silent White church who keeps quiet about racism, historical and current, and Sunday after Sunday does nothing to educate, encourage, their members to do a 180 and repent and begin to care about Black people in their cities; who does nothing to encourage them to form genuine friendships and becoming true allies and understand what it means to be a family in Christ across racial lines, perpetuate these atrocities. If that conservative shooter had understood that these were actually his brothers and sisters in Christ, he would not have shot them. His actions demonstrate that he had no such understanding.  And I believe all of this grieves, offends and angers the heart of God. 

Today we weep with Charleston. We stand with the families, mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, uncles, aunties, cousins who have lost - in the most senseless tragic way. Today as a Haitian, I refuse to take in  the humiliation that is being thrust upon my people by the Dominican Republic government. I refuse to have my daughter question whether there is  value in her skin tone, and her ethnic heritage. As a Black Christian woman, I take my cues about who I am from the Lord God Almighty. Jehovah is His Name. I do not receive the message from this intentionally racist misguided hate-filled boy-man, that black lives are made to be destroyed. This is a message from the enemy of our souls, not from the Creator of these precious Black lives. 

I hope and pray that as my daughter turns 1 year, 19 months, 9 years old, 19 years old, 29 and so on, and so forth, there will be enough courageous souls, especially those of White Christians, led by the Holy Spirit's leading against all of this injustice and start with baby steps, whispering, "enough is enough!" And then getting stronger, saying Enough is Enough. That they will shout with us, their Black brothers and sisters, ENOUGH IS ENOUGH!! That they will believe and say, and live with their actions, their friendships, their homes, their churches -- that  All life is sacred. Including Black lives.

- Achlaï Ernest Wallace 

hard work, culture and Jesus

are you working hard enough?

Immigrant families and many minorities have long-been acquainted with  the notions of fitting in, and having to work hard to obtain a piece of the proverbial pie. Being a part of a such family myself, an overriding theme had always been the understanding that they made sacrifices, and that we'd better work hard, or work harder. Amidst the laughter, joy and challenges of living in our Haitian-Christian home, came a very clear  message that you were to live and work to show yourself above reproach, firstly to God, your parents, then, your teachers, and certainly any white folks who might be looking on. It’s made  wonder recently – what message will I consciously be sharing with my daughter? Even more importantly, what messages will my life unconsciously teach her?

I saw my mother and father work harder than anyone I’ve ever met, doing varying jobs throughout our growing up years to make sure all our needs of us 6 siblings were met. My dad was an accountant, than later on, a welder by trade, and a preacher/church planter/pastor after hours. Rewards, we were taught,  were given only to those who worked hard. Certainly where schooI was concerned – our parents told to us, we'd have to work twice as hard to be recognized and given what we deserved. Our parents refused to sign their names next to failing work – to them that was anything that was lower than a “B” -- when teachers would require parental signatures. They didn’t play. And looking back, I see how that was good.  How they wanted to make sure we had the best chance in a white world. And boy were those white teachers lovin' the Ernest 6.

you better represent

But somewhere along the line, it became clear to me, that I had the burden of representing my whole ethnic culture - no scratch that - the entire Black race with my pluses and minuses.  And the one thing about those minuses -- It always felt as if everyone was extra aware about the minuses that a black kid did.  (more than the minuses that a white kid did). And this is what my parents knew. For example if I was late to anywhere - it couldn't just be that Achlaï was late. It was "you know those Haitians, how late they are.” Or “Black folk just can't be on time anywhere.” These days, it’s often comments about Baltimore or Ferguson –  perpetuating negative stereotypes about boys and men in our community.  The idea that we as Black people don’t get to rest and experience life, unless we’ve earned it so-to-speak one  way or the other, has seeped into many-a-folks(mine included) consciousness.

It'snosurprisetherefore,thatnearlytwodecadeslater,theideaof"letting-up-on-myself", gettingadequaterest,practicingself-care* and all those other wonderful and deeply important aspects of spiritual direction and thoughts from the Desert Fathers, (and all of the ancient stuff, which I think is SO wonderful), still fall on much fallow ground of my heart, which must be continually tilled by the gentle kneading of the Spirit.

we want more

I’m reminded of the John 6 passage, which depicts a story, a dialogue, really, between  Jesus and the people for whom Jesus had done the “works” of multiplying bread, providing them with food to eat. After this great miracle, the people went looking for Jesus – “working” hard to find more bread. When Jesus calls them out on their skewed motives in their desire to be with him, he doesn’t just leave them there. He also admonishes them not to work for food that will disappear,  but to make the work worth it -  for food that will last longer than a meal, for food that will last forever.  

I find myself asking right alongside them – well, what is the work, I should do? That God will finally approve of? Is it being the most successful black woman I can be, representing my ethnicity and race with flying colours? Is it being the most efficient time-manager, neat-aholic, pristine house-keeper, to-do-list-finisher? Is it even really possible to find a way to satisfy the works of God in a way that doesn’t overburden, paralyze—even for a super-mom-complexed-perfectionist-in-recovery like me? A works that will transcend culture, or at least take it into account, and yet trump all, to give me life and freedom from both my inherited “work harder-ness” and self-imposed “it’s never good-enough-ness?”

Like the people in that passage, I sit on the edge of my seat, leaning in forward so I can hear the Jesus’ answer to this question I ask just about daily.

In verse 28: “What can we do to perform the works of God” they asked.

 And Jesus’ answer gives me life. Every.single. time. That I read it.

 “This is the works of God: that you believe in the One He has sent.” And that is all. Nothing more, nothing less.

 Believe in the One whom He sent.

 Is that all? Really?? What a relief! Why do we make it so complicated? What freedom and life literally fills up my lungs as I read that. Gone is the  influence of cultural impositions from minority or majority cultures! Gone is the on-going lie of satan, that I’ll never win, because I can’t seem to “keep up” in my life at all times. Gone is the lie that I’ll only feel good when I finish my “To-Do Lists”.  And my To-Do lists, always (hear me when I say always) out-do my allotted time to accomplish them. Probably because I cram in too much, and underestimate too often, how long any given project, task, assignment will actually take to finish in said time…Really, To-Do-Lists and I are Frienemies (is that how that’s spelled?)…:)

We digress, for there’s more life from Jesus to be had.

After the people ask for some sign to know whether or not they should believe He is who He says He is (the One), while also questioning if He is claiming to be like Moses who gave their forefathers bread, back in the day – Jesus gives them a little schooling on the identity of the Person who actually provided the bread from heaven back in the day of the Old Testament. The same heavenly Father who is now once more providing Bread of Life – but unlike the manna that fell from heaven and was wasted,  this Bread of Life, is bread that lasts always. And then once again come these life-altering, culture-trumping words from the Word:

 “For the Bread of God is the One who comes down from heaven and gives life to the world.” (verse 22).

Wow. Another wave of relief, and then tears washes over me. That life and rest can truly be mine too. That I can stop trying to wrest rest from life and rest instead in the Life that He alone, is designed to give. Accomplishing our To-Do Lists and clean houses and good grades can only do so much – let alone, truly give us life. They were never designed to do all that. Jesus is telling them and us, later readers, that our religious history, our cultural mores, being a wonderful cultural token for majority culture, nor the ways in which we constantly pressure or guilt ourselves, are what gives life.

Jesus is the One who gives life. 

No more wresting rest from life.

When I acknowledge Him, take deep breaths in, the life comes in by the power of the Holy Spirit.

"The Spirit is the One who gives life. The flesh doesn't help at all. The words that I have spoken to you are spirit and are life." (verse 63)

And the world stops squishing together in incomprehensible sentences that cannot be deciphered, more and more in relieving clarity: 

*It’s no surprise therefore, that nearly two decades later, the idea of "letting-up-on myself", getting adequate rest, practicing self-care is so life-giving and refreshing. 

May many more of us, 2nd generation hyphenated North Americans and minorities receive the life that Jesus speaks of in John 6. Even as I encourage her to do her best, as God has designed her, may the above be the message of life I share with my daughter.

I can rest. I was designed to have margins. God does not actually need me to run the world. Sabbath is a gift AND a command. I am best, when I rest.

Therefore,  I am grateful for  my growing awareness of this life that Jesus gives even to me,  a strong hard-working Black woman.  But  I am learning that I no longer am working hard because I seek life through it, but rather I have life simply because Jesus gives it.

-          Achlaï Ernest Wallace

Scriptures taken from the Holman Christian Standard Bible.

teaching my daughter in the Haitian-Christian tradition

initial thoughts on motherhood

As I have been embarking on this still very new journey of motherhood, I have been struck by the myriad of complexities and an on-slaught of emotions that often come from within me. How can one six- pound baby bring all of this on?? And the interesting thing, is that often these emotions are in complete juxtaposition of each other. For example while it is entirely new, and slightly scary to have been a part of this beautiful arrival of our daughter, (and indeed the world of motherdom is truly a new land to discover) I also find that much of being with her, caring for her, and simply including her in our lives, exudes a certain familiarity as well. As if in many ways, I’ve always  been made for this role, for this exact season in my life. Often I find myself asking the Holy Spirit for insight on my daughter, asking who she is, what are her needs.  And just as often, I seem to intuitively be given just what I need to  know, for that moment, how to respond effectively. I am grateful for this gift from God. Of course many aspects of mothering and parenting are also trial and error, but even in those more challenging moments, there is a deep trust that I will not be at a loss for too long. And indeed, God has been more than faithful in teaching me who my daughter is, as she too in her own way continues to instruct me on how to care for her as she is developing her personality and character even at her very young age.

how I grew up:

navigating English/French Canada - Haitian-style

Other emotions also arise. Deep and oft-times a maze of emotion with a hint of fear as it pertains to ethnic and cultural identity swells from the subconscious-barely-aware-of-it to the forefront of my consciousness and thoughts – especially as I consider the cultural reality of the smallish southern town in which our family currently lives. As I think about my daughter’s ethnicity, being a Black baby of Haitian-Canadian, African-American, Choctah-Pawnee, in the midst of this culture,  I find myself filled with an unexpected burden – to ensure that my daughter learns who she is, ethnically, racially and linguistically in a much less ethnically-diverse community than I grew up in. Sure, I myself, grew up as somewhat of anomaly, born into a Haitian immigrant family living in Canada, but having English as a regularly-spoken third language in our home (admist our native Haitian-Kreyol and French as first languages). A typical Haitian family in Montreal simply did not comprise English-speakers. Ours did. Eventually my siblings and I grew more comfortable with English, all of us having attended English immersion schools since those early primary school days as a result of living in English-speaking Ontario (in Toronto), instead of Quebec for some 4 formative years of our lives. But then we returned to Montreal, and those years in the French-speaking province of Quebec, proved to shape us equally as much as Ontario had. And though we grew comfortable with English, it was always in the context and backdrop of Haitian lore, Haitian music, culture,  food, Fringlish (French and English), laughter, Haitian jokes and general typical  Haitian-family drama and joyful sheninigans. Therefore, in present day, as a Black Haitian-Canadian living in the primarily English-speaking United States, and bringing a daughter into the world in this country,  a noticeable  fear (ie. I notice this fear in me)— has been that all her beautiful ethnic heritage will get absorbed by  the predominance of majority culture, both ethnically and linguistically. To give credence to this fear, is also a reality that my husband and I often find ourselves to be the minorities in a variety of settings. 

where ethnicity and faith intersect:
teaching my daughter in the Haitian-Christian tradition

From our past work as college campus ministers to certain church settings where we have been called by the Lord, the  pre-dominant majority culture has prevailed. If often feels like we lose more than everyone else. Now, I’m not one to play a “victim” role, but that’s how it sometimes feels. No matter how much we try to influence majority culture, and attempt to bring multiethnic nuances, it often feels like 5 steps forward, 3 steps back – yet I must face the fact, that is the context in which we are bringing our daughter on a regular basis. And this can bring about fear for even this strong Black Haitian-Canadian woman. After all, it’s not my heart for her to not know even a smidgen of my distinct Haitian-Christian worldview, shaped by my own parents and family. And while her’s is simply a different identity, than my own, and I recognize that I can’t re-live my childhood vicariously through her, I am reminded, even as I write here today and understand on a whole new level, that God allowed Hadassa to be born into this family. In our family. To my husband and I. With parents who are from a different ethnic culture than the majority/white culture. And that is a beautiful thing. A God-ordained thing.  Not only do I not have to live in fear, I realize that what the Lord has for me to teach my beautiful girl, He has for me, specifically to teach. In fact, He has even mandated that we (my husband and I) be the ones to be her primary teachers in a big world that can oft-times be a confusing cultural haze.

So teach her I will. I desire to make sure that she will know the joys and encouragement of boldly sharing your testimony as soon as you can talk. (That’s the Haitian way!) I will be sure to instill into her, at a very young age the power of praise and worship – that demons indeed tremble at the Name of Jesus as Scripture teaches. She will know the freedom of prayer and song, the two intertwined as she comes before God. I am excited to teach her a bazillion children songs of praise and just great nursery rhymes that I learned when I was a child. Popular French songs such as “Sur Le Pont d’Avignon”, and “As-tu-vu la casquette.” And the famous “Alouette, gentil Alouette”.

where faith & ethnicity intersects:
the most important truth for this mother in the midst of a growing multi-ethnic church community

 I also want to teach her to avoid some of the typical pitfalls of religiosity or legalism such as the long list of don’ts that some of us Haitian kids, sometimes grew up with. (In case you’re wondering what these were –-don’t wear pants, don’t wear make-up, don’t go the movies, and certainly, don’t ever ever go on dates – (I guess they expected us to just magically marry :)). I want to focus instead on God’s grace that is greater than all of our sins, and teach my daughter, that there is no greater or smaller sin, and that she will always be loved more than her “greatest” sin.

Even though we often do find ourselves led by the Holy Spirit to be a part of ministries where black people are in the minority, I am deeply encouraged to be a part of a homechurch whose desire seeks to reflect more fully God’s global and diverse Kingdom. Where we have a devoted Christ-centered Pastor (a white man) who is not afraid to share power and influence with the Director of Worship (a black man – who also happens to be my husband). As we continue to respond to God’s call to often be catalysts of newly racially reconciled multi-ethnic communities, above all, I want my daughter to know that her FIRST identity is beloved child of God. That she is made uniquely, with purpose, as a beautiful black girl, with a beautiful part to play in God’s Kingdom. If I don’t do anything else right as her mother, I want to be sure to instill in her this first and most important truth, that Jesus died and rose for her, and loves her more deeply than she can ever understand, and that this reality surpasses all others. That she is the daughter of a King. My trust is in Jesus alone to accomplish this. I am full of His confidence that He who started me on this journey of motherhood, will bring it to pass. And so I end, in the sing-song voice that I sing with gusto to my baby girl  on a daily basis:  Maman t’aime, Maman t’aime, Maman t’aime – mais Jésus t’aime plus! (Momma loves you, Momma loves you, Momma loves you – but Jesus loves you more)! And I think I hear her now, shrieking with laughter, as she always does, at the godly, hilariously joyful thought.

-Achlaï