Give me a clean heart so I may serve Thee. Lord, fix my heart so that I may be used by Thee. For I’m not worthy of all these blessings. Give me a clean heart, and I’ll follow thee.
-- Margaret J. Douroux

“Lord, what is my place and purpose in your world? How do I make my stand in this selfish place? How do I make them see me? How do I make them hear me? Lord, I know that we all must struggle, but, dear Jesus, how much does my heart have to take?

“A Black woman’s stretch in this world, Jesus, is hard. I’m denied, devalued, belittled... I’m distraught. They say I’m less than a woman, that I’m callous, rough around all my edges and unfeminine. But Lord, you made me, you made me a woman, due all the tenderness of my gender. They say that I’m the cause of the increase in government subsidies because I have too many babies and they want to put some kind of implant in my arm that will stop my God-given birthing process. They say I can’t take care of my female-run household, that my children, my boys, turn out to be criminals and jailbirds, and all my girls are made to do is turn tricks. They say I’m promiscuous and I’m keeping AIDS alive as I die in phenomenal numbers. They call me cantankerous, loud, unruly. They say my life is sub-standard and my education is second, third or no class. They think I’m only capable of being somebody’s nursemaid or answering somebody’s phone. And they always place me at the bottom of the economic rung, giving me the crumbs of America’s spicy apple pie.

“Lord, brothers say I’m a gold-digger because I sometimes seek the finer things on their account. Or, either I’m too big or sedity because I set goals and accomplished them. They call me out of my name – “bitch” this and “ho” that; they pass my lovin’ over for other women. Brothers beat me, rape me, then leave me and my children to stomach this cruel world alone.

“My sisters who ride in the same boat with me, Lord? They eye me up and down, they talk behind my back -- they say the stuff to my face! They don’t trust me; they compete with me; they think they’re better than me. Sisters knock me down when I’m climbing the ladder and laugh at me when I’ve reached the ceiling. They vie for my man, dragging me through mud and agony to get him.

“Lord, my own people, these brothers and sisters, say I’m ugly, that I ain’t nothing. And if I’m a dark-complexioned sister, I gotta stay back because light is right; my God-given color separates me within my own race.

“Jesus, my heart is heavy. I come to you because I don’t know what to do. I’m battered by society and my own people disrespect me. I need strength. I need your strength, Lord. Fill me up with your compassion and forgiveness so that I can forgive all those who hurt me. Fill me with confidence so that I don’t defeat myself. Lord, I need you to see for me because I can’t see past my pain. Jesus, be my shield, cover me, to protect me from the blows to my psyche and physical self. Then fix me so I can touch somebody else and help them weather the storm. Work in me Lord. Breathe on me. Clean my heart. Amen.”

Sadiqqa © 1997