A Sistahood of Silence
You have cut
short the days of his youth; you have covered him with a mantle of shame. Selah
(Psalm 89:45, NIV)
Have you ever sat in church and felt like
you didn’t belong? Do you just hurt sometimes but no one knows what you’ve been
through? What you’re still going through? Do you go through life wrapped in a
shroud of shame? You are not alone. When all heads are bowed and eyes are
closed, many women raise their hands, claiming membership in the sistahood of
shame. Prepare to be broken, both for yourself and for your sisters. Comfort
comes next, along with the robe of many colors so long ago discarded. Rise
daughter. Join my sistahs and I on a journey past shame, past rejection. Walk
with us on Tamar’s path, the road that leads to the Father’s house. It’s a long
walk, but it’s worth the journey.
I always wanted a
sister. My mother had four of them and although they had their differences,
those old reel-to-reel movies of them dancing in my aunt’s basement or the
knowing smiles they shared across the table at holidays made me crave
sisterhood. I sought it first in friends, not knowing really how to value
myself, let alone another girl. Back then, people used me to suit their
purposes and I used them to suit mine and we called it friendship, knowing that
same things we said about other folks when they weren’t around were said behind
our backs too. Knowing that despite our best efforts, we were far from sisters,
far from friends.
Still, I desired
sisterhood, looking fondly at the sorority girls during college, enraptured by
their secret dances and graceful calls. But that wasn’t my road either. When I
married a man with a sister, I thought I’d struck gold after sifting through
roommates, co-workers and girls down the street. I’d finally have a sister. But
that wasn’t to be, either. She was already somebody’s sister. She wasn’t
looking for another.
I stopped seeking
sisterhood around that time and started seeking Jesus. It was a crooked path,
like a never ending treasure map, with God leaving gifts and drawing me to Him,
step-by-step, verse-by-verse. He asked for all of me, everything I had: my
daddy hunger, my need for sister love, the guilt, the shame, the confusion.
Everything. And I gave it all, with one eyebrow raised, wondering what on earth
He’d do with all of that. He was God, true enough, but that was a lot of mess.
And I hadn’t even had time to pack it up properly before handing it over. Jesus
took my stuff in trash bags and shoeboxes, old envelopes and yellowed
notebooks.
In the meantime, I
wandered into churches, listening to people being referred to as “Sister
So-and-so” only to have them look at me as though they wanted to run. Me, with
my baby carrier and twisted slip trying to get to Jesus. I wasn’t “sister”
material. Evidently you had to be over 40, married to a deacon and a member of
the church for over 30 years to break into the sisterhood. Well, I just didn’t
have that kind of time. Still hoping, still hungering for a place to belong,
for women to belong to, I moved on.
My journey took me
on to other places, more crosses, more sisters. This time, they had lace
collars and flowered dresses, big hair and sunny smiles. And rules. Lots and
lots of rules. But their tea tasted good and they seemed to have this Christian
woman thing down to a science, so I stuck around, trying to get all the rules
down pat. It was tough. After a while, I dug out my blue jeans and lipstick and
crawled away. Nobody seemed to notice (and those who did notice didn’t want to
get in trouble). So with waving hankies and a few “we’ll pray for you”s, I was
on my way again.
Around this time
though, a strange thing started to happen. Every now and then— often when I
least expected it— God would send me what I know now was a sistah, a woman who
clicked with me instantly, cared about me and taught me something new about
being friends. These women came from different backgrounds, but they all
extended kindness to me, accepting me into their circles, even when I didn’t
know how to be a part. When I retreated from them in silence because things
were getting too close, they pursued me. When I chased them instead of Jesus,
so I wouldn’t have to deal with my life, they corrected me. They taught me that
sometimes the only way to straighten a limb is to break it again and let it
heal right, to pull off the scabs and clean out the wounds.
Most of all, they
believed God with me and for me, moving past the hedge of shame I’d placed
around myself. Though they were women of power, women of God, they uncovered
themselves to cover me. They saw my Tamar heart and helped to bring my life to
the Father’s house. They covered me, comforted me, encouraged me, heard me,
held me and more important than anything else, they told me their stories. They
showed me that every woman needs a place to dress her wounds, a sistahood to
bleed in, to hurt in. I’d done that before, but my wounds had always been
dressed by those who meant me evil, those who inflicted more pain, leaving me
infected.
Even the “sisters”
of the church with their china cups and giftedness at being appropriate
(something I certainly wasn’t) refused to give me the one thing I needed from
them most—their testimonies. They gave me rules without relationship, censure
without context. I needed to know about their failures and the triumphs. I
needed to know that there was hope for me.
So who is a
sistah? She’s someone you can take your bra off with. Someone who can see you
at your worst. Someone you don’t have to explain things to because she’s been
there and she already knows. She’s someone who’ll come to your aid even if she
hasn’t heard from you in ages. She’s funny. She’s serious. She’s loud. She’s
quiet. She’s peanut butter brown. She’s ebony satin black. She’s pecan tan.
She’s alabaster white. She loves people and loves God. She looks different on
any given day, but when you meet her, you know her because she’ll listen to
your story…and tell you hers.
My “sistahs” as I
call the women who brought me that hope, gave me a precious gift in sharing
their stories with me— so much so that when speaking, I began to tell their
stories along with mine. New sistahs came too, whispering their tales to me,
things some of them had never told. I shall attempt to share some of these
stories with you. In this volume, you’ll meet my coverers, the survivors of
sexual abuse, abortion, abandonment and most of all, shame. To include all the
wonderful women God has brought me would be impossible, but I hope the stories
I’ve chosen to tell will give you a glimpse of how blessed I am. I’ve given
some of my sistah’s new names to protect their children. Others speak in their
own names at risk of their lives.
As you read these
stories, I pray that you will learn something new about being a woman, being a
Christian and being a friend. I pray that through these stories, you gain the
courage to get real with the women in your life, to both listen to their tales
and share your own.
Copyright Marilynn Griffith 2006, All Rights Reserved
CHAPTER FIVE: Am I My Sistah’s Keeper?
