...and we stiiilllllll togetha!

There are some things that just break my heart. Siblings fighting happen to be one of them. And I am admittedly kind of a hypocrite typing that, right? I have certainly had some interesting moments with my sisters. And though my real feelings and my actions on a couple of (okay, few) occasions have not been congruent with my genuine sentiments, the fact remains – it broke my heart every time. And still does.

Literally. Makes. Me. Sick.

And because we all owe this life a death, our parents will not be with us forever. The hope, if you can call it that, is that a mother will not have to bury her son. But I sometimes wonder about the unholy thing I will surely become should I have to put my father to rest. And what will happen next? What will that loss do to me? To the six other people I shared Mommie's womb and Daddie's DNA with?

Whatever we become, I hope this does not become our story:

As a minister of the Gospel, the thought of selling my daddy’s Bible troubles my mind, vexes my spirit and weighs on my soul. The thought of profiting from the sale of the Peace Prize Medal, which my father accepted 50 years ago this year on behalf of the greatest demonstration of peace this nation has ever seen, is spiritually violent, unconscionable, historically negligent, and outright morally reprehensible.

I hope I never have to write those words. I don’t know them like that. And I only know one side of the story. An impassioned plea for Daddie’s Bible.

And that is what we are gathered here today to discuss folks. Daddie’s Bible. Not just any Bible. The first Bible Daddie ever gave me. The same Bible I use today, some 26 years later.

I was in Church one day a few years ago, carefully flipping the pages of that tattered Bible. You would have thought it was a poorly preserved World War I relic or something. That Bible has been through some thangs! Not quite like Jesus, but it has been tested for sure. The person sitting next to me leaned in to share their Bible with me. I think, they maybe had some pity for my pitiful looking, gold name engraved, Holy Bible. Pages falling out, torn, stained…even the leather bound cover is sans that black shiny finish.

The Sunday Struggle is REAL ova here!

     Person: You’ve had the Bible a while, eh?

Me: *happily* Yup. It was the first Bible my Daddie ever gave me. It just sucks when I get to this one part of Matthew, I lost one of the pages.

Person: *not sure what to think* o_O

Me: I know it sounds crazy, but it’s the only Bible I’ll ever use. I’ve got a brand new one at home. Rarely will I open it. Crazy, I know.

My sisters have pissed me off. We’ve gotten to points and places in life where we would not say a word to each other. Miss the phone call on purpose. Ignore the text message. Act like we were not just tagged in an old memory on Facebook. Could be sitting next to each other on the SamTrans going home and not even share a glance. We can be stubborn #ImARealLeoOtherTimes…

But I cannot imagine a time or a circumstance, in which there would even be a question about Daddie’s Bible. Daughters of a preacher man, profiting from the Word he freely dispensed? There is no object on Earth that can replace the loss of a loved one – of a parent. Nothing will replace my father. But if we think of things like Lord Voldermont, then there are some objects in which we hide parts of ourselves – purposely and accidentally. Objects that become the essence of who we are. And I hated even sharing my Daddie with the kids on his school buses.

My Journals. My Music Collection. My Shoes. Damn, my race medals! I imagine that those who know me best will have a worst time going through these items when I dearly depart this world. These are the horcruxes I have accidentally made, and will have to purposely leave here. Again, without knowing the story behind her post, if I were asked to part with something so central to everything my Daddie ever was, I think I would have a really bad day. And night. Basically Life. Life would be bad. I’d be restless too Nneka.

I still remember that day, in 1988 when I got that brand new Bible. April 24, 1988. An adult Bible. The King James Version. Because the other versions we had to read as kids seemed too watered down for me. I wanted the good stuff Daddie was yellin about behind that podium in the auditorium. I sat in that folding chair, ruffled church socks and pig tails – glowing! I concentrated so hard on that first page in my brand new Bible. Writing my name. The name a good man gave me. And the great name of the God fearing man who gave it to me. I had to put my middle name on the second line, with an arrow pointing between my first and last name. He gave me two good names, and saw fit to share his last one with me. Even the Jr. Everyone who knows me, knows that I am my father's daughter. Jr.

…and when I meet ole’Poochie that fateful day, on the other side of Jordan’s River, I pray my babies left wandering this here dusty Earth are reading passages from Mama’s beat up ole’Bible. I kinda think that was one of Dr. King’s dreams too.