Peace From Broken Pieces: How to Get Through What You're Going Through

by Vanzant, Iyanla

  As a result of my initiation, I knew intimately the power and necessity of ritual and ceremony. Ritual was something that my African soul cried out for and flourished in, when I participated. I knew the power of pouring libations to my ancestors and welcoming their essence into my consciousness. I knew the need to call upon the names of powerful women from within and without my family lineage. Once I called upon them, I knew how to sit and listen for the wisdom of their lives to flood my mind.

  Ceremony was something that both my African and Native American essence was intimate with and grew from, when I took the time to be present. There was a time in my life when I would light a candle for my deceased parents every Wednesday. I would sit and listen for what I had come to know as their voices whispering in my heart. I could hear my daddy reminding me, “Sit down, shut up, and listen.” Many times, I would see a pretty brown lady in my mind, beckoning me to come near. It wasn’t until my aunt showed me a picture that I realized the image was Sahara, my birth mother. There was a time when I would light incense and candles in my office or whatever room I was working in at the time. I would call upon the angels of God and the spirits of my ancestors to guide my every word and action. I was intimately familiar with the effectiveness of disciplines that inspired me to listen, pray, and approach my life in a humble and spiritually grounded way.

  Then I moved a man into my house and gave his shoes the space that once housed my altar. In order to accommodate him, I lost track of the things that kept me sane and grounded and safe. I lost my commitment to the principles and practices that made my spirit whole, and it was then that I became confused and consumed by the events of my life.

  Somewhere between my first breakup with Eden, which sent me running to the church, and my entering the field of law, I had fallen into the belief that spiritual work was unnecessary and, quite frankly, not fruitful. All my praying had not brought him back into my life. All the candles and incense had not made me any richer or smarter. At the time, I did not understand that challenges and difficulties are opportunities to deepen your faith. I thought I had been faithful doing part-time worship and expecting fulltime rewards. I had no clue that when God gives you something to do, you cannot do just the parts you like, the easy parts. God had given me gifts and talents that I was wasting chasing a forbidden fruit. God had kept me alive and sane in the midst of unspeakable abuse and neglect. God had something huge in store for me, and I needed to allow him to prepare me. Yet, too often in the swirl of a downward spiral, I would misinterpret my life and decide it was just a series of mishaps and devastating events that would never change. Trying to change what I did not believe could or would change rendered me exhausted. Rather than turning to my spiritual practices for discipline and strength, I turned to and learned to rely on what I could do by sheer brute human means and methods. That was actually wrong move but, I didn’t know it then. I hadn’t yet heard the saying God can only do for you what God can do through you.

  As far as I was concerned, breaking up with Eden meant that I was leaving the dysfunctional, unfulfilling relationships with men behind me in my hometown of Brooklyn. No more married, separated men! No more men who wanted to mess around with my head, fool around with my heart, or sleep around with other women. I wanted someone who was willing and ready to be with me just for the pure joy of it. I had learned quite a few things about men and about myself in those relationships. They weren’t spiritual things. They were just things that I thought I needed to know. I was determined to move beyond the pain of loving into the joys of being loved.

  After my move, I got back into my spiritual discipline. I started writing in my journal again. I started each day with prayer. I even began sharing what I knew about the Yoruba tradition with my first set of godchildren, people who looked to me for spiritual guidance, support, and training. I had long been a student of the Bible; now I was studying the Word again and, without much difficulty, making a profound connection between what I was reading there and what I was practicing as a Yoruba. I recognized and understood that the Bible, with its many twists and turns, shalts and shalt nots, was actually the ancient foretelling of my life, of everyone’s life. Sure, it had been distilled and watered down and many parts had been changed or omitted for various reasons. However, I recognized that the ancient stories and parables that my ancestors used to prepare young men and women for the trials of life were hidden in its sacred lines. I loved the warnings and the lessons and the promises as they were revealed in the Bible, because it was all that I had left of those ancient stories.

  Somehow, those practices and beliefs were coming alive within me. I could see, feel, and understand the oneness of all things spiritual—not religious—but spiritual. The lines that separated African from Christian, ancient from New Age, and right from wrong had become blurred for me. I saw and felt Spirit. I sought and honored truth. I made a connection between the old-world ways and my new-world needs. In the midst of it all, my spiritual eyes were opened and my spiritual identity was renewed.

  I really thought I would love practicing law. However, before you pass the bar, you don’t get to practice law. You get to fill out paperwork—lots and lots of paperwork. Because I had not taken or passed the Pennsylvania bar exam, I couldn’t actually represent anyone in court, though I could appear at bail hearings. Mostly, what I could do was interview clients in the office and fill out their paperwork. I also interviewed clients at the courthouse and filled out their paperwork. I went to the jail, the stinky, hot jail to meet with clients and fill out their paperwork. Then I went back to the office and distributed the paperwork to the people who had passed the bar exam. The senior lawyers loved my paperwork. In fact, one of them assumed I was already practicing because of the details and nuances in my paperwork. When I told him I had not yet passed the bar, he said, “Damn! I thought you had it going on, but you’re just a highly paid law student.” Then he burst out laughing. I had to really work with myself not to eat his face off.

  Every now and again, the paperwork would turn out to hold a real story. Those were the people I really wanted to help. Those were the people I thought I would be helping after I passed the bar exam.

  One woman, Patricia, had gotten into an altercation with another tenant in her apartment building. There was a knife involved. The other tenant got stabbed, and Patricia was arrested. When I first saw her paperwork, I assumed she would get bail, go to court, and get probation and I would never see her again. Case closed. I had put my paperwork in order and was standing at the vending machine when a short woman tapped me on the back.

  “Are you the public defender?” h Lord! Another story?

  “Yes, ma’am, I am.”

  “Are you going to handle the case for Patricia Muller?” There was something about this woman that I liked. While she was very soft-spoken, I could feel an energy coming from her that I recognized but couldn’t quite explain—yet.

  “That is my pastor’s daughter, and I am here on her behalf.”

  That’s it! This was an old church mother. One of those powerful women who sit around and pray all day. I knew that energy because I had felt it so many times as a child when I went to church with Grandma. These women felt welcoming. They rocked. They hummed. They moaned. And they could pray the paint off the walls.

  “Is she going to have to go to jail?”

  “No, ma’am. Not if you pay the bail.”

  She explained that the pastor and his wife were on the way up from South Carolina, and it was going to take them at least eight hours to get here. When would she need to have the money?

  “They will probably call her before the commissioner within the next hour. If you can’t pay the bail then, you will need to pay it later and then go to the detention center to pick her up.”

  “The Lord knows the way.”

  “I am sure he does.”

  The next group of defendants came up within the hour. Ms. Muller was not among them. When I looked over my shoulder to give the church mother a reassur
ing nod, her eyes were closed and she was rocking from side to side. By the time the third group came up without Ms. Muller, I was laughing to myself. This woman’s prayers are affecting the entire legal system. I called the defender’s office and told them I would take the next shift. Although it meant I would be on my feet for 16 hours, I almost felt obligated to see this case through to the end.

  As soon as I sat down next to the church mother, her eyes flew open. Before I could get my mouth open, she asked me if I would go and let Patricia know that Mother Carol was here and her parents were on the way. I explained that I was not allowed to speak to the prisoners before they came into the court room.

  “Prisoner? Patricia ain’t nobody’s prisoner!”

  “I mean the defendants. I am not allowed to speak to them while they are in police custody.” “You are the lawyer, right?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I mean, I’m not actually a lawyer because I haven’t passed the bar exam, but I can stand before a commissioner.”

  “You’re going to pass the exam, but today I need you to go and tell Patricia that I am here.”

  It was worth a try. I knew the officers on duty, and they teased me about being a New Yorker. I had never made such a request, so maybe—just maybe—they would be nice to me.

  I went down into the basement where the defendants were held in lockup. I walked the long and narrow hallway that never seemed to end. When I stepped up to the window of the cage, I noticed that Patricia was alone. I knew from the paperwork that there were at least 212 defendants in the cage, but Patricia had a cage all to herself. She was sitting on the floor, in the corner. She had been in lockup for 11 hours. I tapped on the window and gave her Mother Carol’s message. She began to weep.

  “Why are you crying? Your parents are on the way, and Mother Carol has this entire building on lockdown.”

  “I am so scared.”

  “Scared of what?”

  “I didn’t do what he said. I didn’t stab him.”

  “So what are you afraid of? You know what to do.”

  “I don’t know what to do!”

  “You mean to tell me that you are a pastor’s daughter and you don’t know what to do? Girl, you better get to praying.”

  She looked at me as if I had lost my mind. I started her off:

  “The Lord is my shepherd.”

  She continued, “I shall not want.”

  We prayed Psalms 23 and 91 together, aloud. Then we just prayed. The only thing that stopped us was the officer letting me know that court was about to begin. As I left, prisoners in the other cages were screaming through the windows.

  “Pray for me too! Miss. Miss. Please pray for me too!”

  Two hours later, the pastor and the first lady arrived. Ten minutes later, Patricia Muller entered the courtroom. When the commissioner attempted to set her bail at $5,000, I reminded him of how long the prisoner had been held—14 hours by this time, 2 hours longer than the maximum. I glanced into the gallery.

  Pastor Muller, the first lady, and Mother Carol were all standing, all rocking from side to side. The commissioner released Patricia Muller on her own recognizance. When she came upstairs an hour later, the pastor thanked me and invited me to church. I went.

  Over the next few weeks, I realized I was in the right place, at the right time, doing the wrong thing.

  All of a sudden, after many months of agony and much prayer, I knew in my soul that I was not meant to be a lawyer. I knew that my destiny was not aligned with man’s system of law. It was my destiny to find and teach the process of being in alignment with God’s law. After 21 days of fasting and purification, I left the defender’s office without a goal or a vision. I knew I had made the right choice.

  He was absolutely delicious to look at, and he saw me first. I was walking through the halls of Temple University, trying to find the Religion Department. I was going to pursue a doctoral degree. Apparently, I had passed his classroom several times on my many trips around the corridor, and when class was over, he decided I needed help.

  “Are you lost?”

  “I sure am. I’m looking for Dr. Stewart’s office and I’m late for my appointment.”

  “Well, I guess so. You’re on the wrong floor. Come with me.”

  He looked good. He smelled good. He was willing to help me find my way. This was turning into a very good day.

  “I am Fahim Majid. And you are?”

  I am. He said, I am. That is a powerful way to introduce yourself, but he must be Muslim. That could mean that he had four wives and nine children.

  “I am Iyanla Vanzant.” We had arrived at our destination.

  “Hey, Doc, I brought a very beautiful lady to see you.”

  I introduced myself, and my escort excused himself.

  After my meeting, I headed toward the elevator. To my pleasant surprise, Mr. Smell So Good You Want To Bite Him showed up while I was waiting.

  “Are you following me?”

  “I sure am.”

  As we walked to my car, he told me all about the Ph.D. program. He too was a religion major, one class away from his dissertation. He had served as the imam in a Connecticut community for many years before he simply burned out. He had left his mosque and his wife and had spent the past two and a half years trying to find his next steps. I left him with my telephone number and I had his.

  For the next three months, we talked every day, several times a day. Once I started the program, we saw each other every day. He was everything I imagined a good man could and should be. He opened the car door and every other door. He listened when I talked and answered everything I asked him. Even better, he was completely accepting of my views on things religious and things spiritual. We didn’t always agree, but he gave me the space to share and practice what I believed.

  By the time we were heading toward the ninth month of dating, things were starting to get serious. We both tried to deny it. He broke first.

  “I think I have fallen in love with you, and that is not what I want.”

  “Really. What do you want?” I wasn’t ready to declare anything.

  “I’m not really sure.”

  “Have you prayed about it?”

  We were both students of religion. Prayer was our first line of support and defense. “I did more than that. I talked to my imam about it.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He told me to keep praying until I received an answer.”

  “Okay, so what is the problem?”

  “No problem. I just wanted you to know what I was thinking.”

  “Well, thank you. I appreciate it.”

  This man was too good to be true.

  Over the next few weeks, any time we were together, we had the same conversation. He would list all of his reasons for not wanting to go to the next step. I would listen and reassure him that I had no expectations. Then one day we ended up in his apartment and I spent the night. The next morning, he went for a jog and left me in the apartment alone, with a mind full of questions. Did I snoop? Well, of course I did. Did I find anything? Absolutely! I found panties in the dresser drawer. I found notes and lists in a handwriting that was not his. It was the Tampax under the bathroom sink that sealed the deal for me.

  By the time he returned I was good and heartbroken. He kept asking me what was wrong, and I kept denying there was anything at all. He dropped me off at home, kissed me goodbye, and headed to New Jersey to see his children. I spent the weekend trying to figure out why this was happening and what I needed to do next. I thought to myself, Look, he has not made a commitment to you and you have not made one to him. What is the big deal? The big deal was that I was standing at the threshold of a recurring and calamitous pattern in my life—meet a man; sleep with a man; fall in love with a man; get dissed by the man. I knew that I did not want to participate in yet another man-sharing opportunity.

  I prayed about it and received the guidance I needed—Stop looking for love outside of yourself. I didn’t like that guidance, so
I went back to being human. I intended to produce myself on his doorstep bright and early Monday morning and tell him what I had found. I sat in my car in the parking lot for at least 15 minutes, waiting for my legs to stop shaking. It was just long enough. As I put my hand on the door handle, I looked up and saw Mr. Wonderful coming out of his building with a woman. They kissed. He got in his car. She got in another car. They both drove away, leaving me in the parking lot with my mouth hanging open.

  By the time I got home, he had already been there and left a note. I must have sat with one hand on the telephone for hours waiting for him to call. He did.

  “You’re not coming to school today?”

  “No. I had a few other things to do.”

  “Okay. You want me to stop by later?”

  “No. I will probably be out.”

  “Okay. Are you okay?”

  “Yes. I’m fine. I’ll talk to you later.”

  Damn it! I’d punked out.

  But by that evening, I was over it. Although I still didn’t quite buy into my spiritual guidance, I couldn’t believe that he was my attempt to find love. My relationship pattern was playing out, and I was no longer angry. I was no longer hurt. I was complete with him and with the pattern.

  There is something about knowing the truth that makes you responsible for determining what you do next. What I knew was that I was no longer willing to participate in my own heartache and disappointment. I was no longer willing to pine away over a man who had a different agenda than mine. I was choosing to say no to something that I knew would eventually blow up in my face.