My Name Is Imago Dei

Sometimes in Virginia when the scorching madness of xenophobia conspires with a fragile, violent countenance, I fall to the darkest, bitter poison. And in that carnage, a nation learns of impending destruction. But the sounds of heaven like an unstoppable flood, poor over New Orleans and comfort forlorn victims of embedded justice. I am men, putting women in cages for birds, beautiful yet bound, loved but unappreciated. I am women, forsaking my sisters as they struggle to understand my privilege. I tell you I am a paradoxical reflection of power and fear, love and vengeance. And I am unstable. And when the weight of unpaid wages reaches the precipice of doubt in young impressionable prisoners of comparison, husbands shoot their children and run to the abyss. But I tell you there is a sound of redemption in Jill Scott prophecy and Bell Hooks’ gentle wisdom. I tell you there is a sound of heaven that leaves me fearless, come what may. Today, I went swimming with my daughter with a final exam the next day. And in that moment, I knew that this crucible, does not rule me, bind me, or define me. Whatever this is, this unstable suffering of paradoxical reflection. It does not rule me. For I am an image of a sacrifice so sublime, that the gates of hell, pain, conquest, or corporate idolatry cannot stand against it. And in the end, I know peace forever.