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

by Vanzant, Iyanla

  It was January 2004, and my life had changed in an unspeakable way. Lydia moved in with me because more often than not, I didn’t know where I was. It was two weeks before I realized I had no clue where Niamoja had gone. Erika told me she was still with her father. “Is that where she wants to be? She should be with me, shouldn’t she?” I called his home and got no answer.

  I did my best to comfort Oluwa, and he kept telling me he was fine. He was not fine! Gemmia had practically raised him. Her death meant that he had lost his primary mother figure. He knew that I was his grandmother. He knew that Nisa was his mother. But he looked to Gemmia for everything. He had even said so at the funeral, where he spoke so eloquently that we gave him a standing ovation. He was a 12-year-old boy who probably didn’t know how to show his emotions. I wasn’t doing much better.

  Lydia had taken over getting Oluwa to school and picking him up. As she said, I couldn’t be loose in the streets without an escort. One day while she was out, I got in my car and drove off with no destination in mind. My house seemed eerily quiet. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. I wanted to get back into the world and get my life moving again. I went to my favorite bookstore in Annapolis, Maryland, a small Christian bookstore where everyone knew me. I walked in quietly and went directly to the Bible section, not that I needed another Bible. I collect them. I must have 50 different Bibles—different translations, colors, and sizes. I only use one. It is ragged.

  I walked up and down the aisles that I knew so well. There was a new comparative Bible. Other than that, everything was just as I had seen it hundreds of times before. I was about to walk out of the store when one of the clerks called out to me.

  “Good day, my sister. You look beautiful today.”

  He looked and sounded like an old-world Christian missionary. Tall. Thin. Pasty white. And enthusiastically joyful. He was new in this store.

  “Well, thank you. I’m good today.” I didn’t bother to give him an explanation.

  “Didn’t find anything? That’s okay, God is still good. Hey, can I give you something?” He jogged through the bookshelves over to the counter. “Here. I want you to have this. I love this and I read it all of the time. It’s my favorite scripture.”

  When I looked down, I saw that he had given me a tract, a small pamphlet that many Christians give out when they are “winning souls” or recruiting for the church. It was Psalm 27—Gemmia’s favorite Psalm. I thought my knees were going to buckle.

  “Do you know that Psalm?”

  “Yes, I do.” I was debating whether I should tell him about Gemmia. Before I could decide, I turned the tract over, and then my knees did buckle. On the other side of the glossy white paper, there was a picture of Jesus, the same Jesus I had seen in Gemmia’s bedroom. He was dressed in a long white robe, and He appeared to have a multicolored strip of Kente cloth draped around his neck. The clerk caught me as I fell forward.

  The next thing I knew, I had a cup of tea in one hand and a soggy wad of tissues in the other. I told the new clerk and a familiar clerk the whole story about Gemmia’s illness, the vision I had the night before she passed, and how crazy I felt, still believing that it wasn’t real, that I had made it up in my grieving mind.

  “Oh no, sister. You didn’t make that up. Coming in here today and getting this is just confirmation. God wants you to know that she is safe in His arms. God always sends us a confirmation of His works.”

  “But a black Jesus? Come on now! You’re a white guy—doesn’t that sound strange to you?”

  “Not really. I think the Lord appears to us in any way we will recognize. This here, this picture of him, this is the Christ. This around his neck, those are the flags of the world. He loves us all, sister. He will come to us all if we let Him.

  I looked closer and they really were flags. Well, it looked like Kente cloth to me.

  The next few days and weeks floated by slowly. I couldn’t get in touch with Niamoja and that really bothered me. We were debating what to do about our offices because the landlord wanted us to pay all of the back rent or leave the premises. I was in the process of selling the building I had purchased because we could not afford the payments or the cost of the renovation. The landlord indicated that he understood about Gemmia’s death and he had been patient; now we had to pay or leave. I couldn’t leave our building and I couldn’t stand to be in it. Gemmia had built that place from nothing. She had decorated every room, purchased every piece of furniture, every book, and every plant. This was where I felt her presence the strongest, and that was why I ached every time I walked through the doors.

  It was the last week in January. The landlord wanted us out by February 1. We started packing, thinking we would move everything to a storage unit and hold classes in a hotel conference room. Almasi was doing the legwork, looking for another location. I pulled up in front of the building. I dreaded going in but couldn’t bear to leave. I was resting my head on the steering wheel when I heard her voice.

  Release the physicality. My head shot up and swiveled on my neck. I was looking around the car, expecting to see her. My heart was pounding. I think I said it aloud: “Gemmia?” Then I heard her again.

  Release the physical. It doesn’t mean anything. That’s what I did. I released the physical to become One with spirit. It was the answer to my prayer.

  My mind started racing, then it slowed down. I had a conversation with Gemmia in my mind.

  Where are you, sweetie?

  I am right here.

  Are you okay? I mean …

  I am wonderful. I am good. Now you must let it all go. Release every physical thing. It is not the building or this place that matters. It is the Spirit.

  When I got inside the building, I told Lydia and Helen what had happened in the car. They didn’t seem shocked or surprised. They were both teary-eyed, shaking their heads. We were still sitting there when Almasi showed up.

  “You are not going to believe this,” she said.

  “Oh Lord, what is it now?”

  She told us that she had found us a place. We could afford it, and it was available immediately. It was five minutes down the road from where we were now. In fact, in order to get to Gemmia’s house, you had to drive right past it. We must have passed the building a million times over the years and never even noticed it. Almasi was excited to the point of jumping up and down. We sat her down and told her what had happened to me in the car. The room fell silent until, as if on cue, we all burst into tears. We were all crying in the same choir: “Thank you, God! Thank you, Gemmia.”

  Two months, two weeks, and four days had passed. Lydia gave me permission to go to the supermarket alone. I went to the large organic market so I could get everything I had become accustomed to eating. It was a large, bright place in a shopping mall for the affluent. I had been shopping there for years. I got my cart, pulled out my list, and started one of my favorite pastimes—shopping!

  I was bagging onions when I glanced around and saw the broccoli. I saw the very fine mist spraying all over the broccoli. I dropped the onions and walked toward it. I just wanted to touch it. When I did, all hell broke loose! Every tear that I had swallowed or not allowed myself to cry spilled forward from the depths of my being. I began to wail—over the broccoli.

  Every hurt, every insult, every disappointment came rushing into my mind. The memory of every loss, every poor choice, and stupid decision I had ever made in my entire life came back as clear as if it were happening right then.

  By now, I was sprawled across the broccoli. The clerk had called the manager. Those two men were staring at me, and so was every shopper who could hear. “Did something happen?” “Madam, can we get you something?” “Is she alone?” “Does anybody know this lady?” I could hear them and I didn’t care. Gemmia loved broccoli and I just needed to hold on to it. I needed to hold on to something, anything, that brought me closer to her. My heart was breaking, I could feel it. I could feel the depth of the pain of every loss I had ever experience
d. I just kept pushing my face into the broccoli. I felt the broccoli spurs in my nose and eyes. One at a time, the heads of broccoli began to fall to the ground. I went along with them. Now security was involved.

  “Somebody call an ambulance! Miss, can you tell me what happened? Are you hurt?”

  Yes, damn it! I am hurt to the core of my being, and I am losing my mind, right here! Right now!

  Thank goodness I could not speak. I cried until I had nothing left. When I looked up, there were 20 or 30 white people staring at me. There was broccoli everywhere. The produce clerk helped me to my feet. I thanked him, brushed the broccoli from my eyes, and left the store. No one tried to stop me and I never looked back.

  I went home and got in my bed. I stayed there over a month. In the meantime, Lydia cared for Oluwa. She fed me. She washed and folded my laundry and took care of my dog and the cat. I slept and I read ten years’ worth of Gemmia’s journals.

  In some journals, she kept a daily record of what she did and how she felt about everything. In others, she documented her spiritual studies and insight. I was amazed that she had kept a record of almost everything I had ever said, every lesson, every class. She also used her journals to write letters. When she had something to say that she didn’t know how to say, she would write a letter. There were many, many letters to me that revealed her experience and thoughts about me. Some of them took me two or three days to read. I would take in a little bit then put the journal down, returning the next day for another dose. I was astonished. She loved me and she unequivocally hated me at the same time.

  It was in her journals that I learned that Niamoja’s father had hit her. Not once, but twice. The first time, she was young. She wrote that she didn’t want me to know, because I would make her leave him. The second time, she must have been 22 or 23. This time she wrote that I could not know because I would kill him. She felt trapped because she did not want Niamoja to grow up without a father the way she had. She also felt trapped because she didn’t believe that any other man would want her. Apparently, Jimmy had convinced her that she was ugly. It happened early in their relationship. It took her a while, but she eventually realized that it was how he controlled her and manipulated her into staying with him. Still, there was a part of her that believed him, and that believed that she would end up used and abused by men like her mother had been. She did not want that for Niamoja. Gemmia believed that if Niamoja had her father in her life, she would have a better chance of breaking the family pattern. Gemmia was very aware of the pattern and quite angry with me for not breaking it on her behalf.

  It was the first time in my life that I had such an honest and intimate view of the way another person saw me. It was painful and it was enlightening. Sometimes, after reading a part of the journals, the only thing I could do was sleep. Sleeping seemed to be the only way I could reflect on and authentically receive what Gemmia had written.

  Gemmia had also kept an up-to-the-minute account of her experience with cancer, from the day she was diagnosed until three days before she passed on. She wrote what the doctors said and what she felt about it. She wrote down everything she ate and how it made her feel. Some of what she wrote was so sad I wept for hours. Some of it was brilliant. The way she assessed herself and her behavior truly showed her metaphysical mastery. I could see her conflict, her confusion, and her resolve. Then there were parts where she had regressed and wrote with the heart and the mind of a 13-year-old. Those were the hardest parts for me to read. What I had done to this woman? What I had done to my very own child? All the days I left her alone to write a book that I never completed— those were days I could have spent with her, times that would have brought her joy. All the days I made her drink carrot juice when all she wanted was a piece of cake or a chicken wing.

  If I could have admitted to myself that I knew, I would have allowed her to enjoy the last days of her life. All the things I didn’t want to do, didn’t know how to do, didn’t take responsibility to learn how to do and pushed off on her; it was humiliating. She hated it and hated me for doing it. There was also a lot of joy in her journals. Things we did do together. Things we talked about. We really were good friends who had spent many good days together. I really missed her. And, even when she was alive, she missed me.

  Some of the journals I read three or four times. Some I will never read ever again. By the time I read the last one, there were several things about which I was very clear. Gemmia was angry. She didn’t show it. She didn’t live her life that way, but she was sitting on years of fury. I was clear that those things, the things she stuffed down and held on to, the things that ate away at her, were the cause of the cancer. I also knew that she never believed that she would not be healed. She had literally fought for her life. She had the victory planned, and the victory song was written.

  The most important thing I learned was that her death was actually an answer to her prayers. She had written many prayers in her journal. In most of them, she affirmed total surrender to God’s will. She never considered that her death would be God’s will, but according to her prayers, she would accept that if it were the case. One thing she wrote sent a chill up my spine. It helped to make sense of what I had heard in the car. Gemmia wrote: Father, I know that you have great things ordained for me. I know you have ordained me to do great things. I even know that some of things you have planned for me, I will not be able to do in this body. This body is just physical. The greatness you have for me is of the spiritual nature, a nature I may never find in this body.

  I was thumbing through the journals, thinking and wondering who I would be on the other side of this experience. Based on what I had read, there were some things about me that had to change. They had to change not because Gemmia said so, but because I wasn’t even aware that they existed. They had to change, or I would spend the rest of my life believing that I was responsible for my daughter having cancer. I had Oluwa and Niamoja to think about. I wanted to be a different kind of person and a better influence in their lives. I wanted to totally disintegrate our family patterns.

  I was thumbing through one journal when I found a story that Gemmia had written. I read it several times. Each time my heart broke again. When I finished reading the story for the last time, I curled into a fetal position. I stayed in that position almost every day for the next five months.

  Jenni and Her Mommy:

  The Birth of One Girl’s Unworthiness

  There once was a little girl—let’s call her Jenni. Jenni was a sweet little girl who loved her mommy so much she would do anything to see her smile. Jenni liked it when her mommy smiled because that meant everyone, especially Mommy, was happy. Mommy being happy was agood thing. Mommy being happy meant a few extra cookies after school or that special chocolate cake with the orange icing that Mommy would make from scratch and put food coloring in. How else would it get to be orange? Jenni would love a piece of that cake right now. Jenni was a good girl. Did I say that already? She got the best grades in school. She always helped out around the house and did her best to stay out of trouble and not be a problem to Mommy. Mommy had other problems. She had Jenni’s older brother and younger sister to take care of too. They picked on Jenni a lot. They said she was a crybaby and a tattletale. Mommy also had to work and take care of Daddy and Grandpa and Nana, so Jenni never got to spend a lot of time with Mommy. Jenni’s brother and sister got more attention than Jenni. Not because they were better than her, but because they were always getting into something that required Mommy’s attention. Mommy didn’t seem to like this very much, and Jenni knew that this was no way to behave. Not that Jenni ever did anything bad, she just didn’t get in enough trouble that Mommy would have to be called.

  One day Jenni’s mommy said she wanted to make life better for them. That the whole family would have to help out so that things could be better. We could not be one of those families like you see in the welfare office or living in the projects their whole lives. We lived there then, but we would not live there forever
. It would just be a matter of time before everything was better for us. What this all came down to was that Mommy was going to go to college to get a degree. It also meant that she was going to be working and we wouldn’t see her so much anymore.

  Jenni missed her mom a lot. She wanted to have special times with her like the day Jenni came home from school and Mommy said I have a secret dragon do you want me to show him to you. Yes, Jenni said.Mommy sat down at the kitchen table next to Jenni and said don’t be scared. Mommy took a puff of her cigarette and blew the smoke out her nose just like a dragon. Then she gave Jenni some cookies and milk.Those special moments didn’t happen often anymore, because Mommy was making a better life for the family, and there just didn’t seem to be time to do those silly things.

  Jenni would have done anything to get Mommy’s attention. Nothing seemed to work. When Mommy came to Jenni’s school to teach dance, Jenni took dance class. Jenni wasn’t the greatest dancer and Mommy certainly let her know it. But Jenni kept on dancing anyway, two left feet and all. It was fun and it was time spent with Mommy.

  Jenni was about 8 or 9 when she got sick. She had tonsillitis and a stomach flu. This meant Mommy had to stay home and take care of Jenni. Finally Jenni was a cause worthy of Mommy’s attention. Mommy stayed home with Jenni for what seemed like forever. Jenni liked it so much that when she started to get better and had to go back to school, she pretended to still be sick. Mommy took a few more days off and stayed home with Jenni, but then she put her foot down. “I can’t do this anymore. I have to go to work, I have to go to school. I need you to act like a big girl and stop this.” So Jenni stopped her faking and went to school the next day so that Mommy could go back to school and work.This went on for years and years. Mommy would work and Jenni would act like a big girl. Sometimes to the point that she was even playing Mommy to her brother and sister. Jenni just knew deep down that one day her Mommy would appreciate all that she was doing for her so that they could all live better, just like Mommy said.