Fungua mlango, open the door.
Her name was Breonna and she was 26 years old. She was God. God was sleeping in her bed before she was shot dead.
Fungua mlango, open the door and honor her death with your life. Let go of being “woke” and wake the hell up!
Fungua mlango, open the door.
Mother Cole, at church with her beautiful hats on Sunday that reaffirmed her dignity as a woman, Black. Putting on the crown that has been bought and paid for by her ancestors journeys. Offering you a mint or a piece of candy with her loving smile.
Fungua mlango, she is God. Mother Cole is God, there is a God named Mother Cole who comes to church on Sunday mornings.
Remember your Granny, how tired she was after working all day scrubbing floors in other peoples houses? How as soon as she hit the door when she came home, she would kick off her shoes, take off her bra and pantyhose before doing anything else? She would find the strength from deep in her soul and cook fried chicken, greens, and cornbread to feed her family. Remember how the food tasted, full of love and not an ounce of obligation?
Fungua mlango, open the door.
As you sat at the kitchen table just because you wanted to be in the same room as her you told her about your dreams, your sorrows, and asked questions that you only dare to ask your granny. She listened, smiled, shared her wisdom, and called you her PJ.
“You are my PJ” says God. God talks. “You are my pride and joy” She opened the portal door to life for you. Your granny is God. God is a Black Woman. God is a grandmother. God listens. God smiles and shares wisdom. You are God’s pride and joy.
Fungua mlango, open the door.
Remember your grandfather on his knees pleading in prayer to God for a way out of whatever was that moments crisis? That was a doorway.
Fungua mlango, open the door.
Remember the black void where you grew in your young mother’s belly? That was God, and the gentle hands that received you? That was God. Remember your fathers eyes staring into yours with love you couldn’t even imagine? In that moment that was God. He was God looking back at you.
Your spouse that snores, that is God. Well, God snores you see. Your spouse is God that wears a scarf to bed every night, that leaves their socks on the living room floor or their coffee cups all over the house. That is God. Your lover that yearns for things you can’t give them. That is God too.
The naive innocence that we each carry and the inevitable betrayal, that is God.
The renewed innocence with discernment, that is also God. God moves us from childish to child like.
Your deepest love and your greatest heartbreak. These too are God. These too are doorways.
Fungua mlango, open the door.
The old spirituals are doorways, the drum is a doorway, dance is a doorway, soul food is a doorway.
Fungua mlango, open the door.
The fire is a doorway. The water is a doorway. The earth is a doorway. Minerals are doorways. Nature is a doorway.
Fungua mlango, open the door.
The medicine women who carry the secrets of the plants, who know that chewing on mint leaves will hold off thirst, and putting moss in your shoe will keep them from being so sweaty. They are doorways.
Fungua mlango, open the door.
The slave ships are doorways. The scars on the back of your ancestors that were whipped within an inch of their lives are doorways.
Fungua mlango, open the door.
Birth, love, struggle, death, grief are all doorways. They are calling you into yourself.
Fungua mlango, open the door.
Fungua mlango, open the door.
Fungua mlango, open the door.
Quanita