My Table

What table did you sit at?

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Today I was reminded of a time when I attended a girl’s night out at our church. The event, A Night of Prayer led by The Woman’s Ministry Leader of our church. She began the evening by describing the table she grew up joining her family for meals. Often the table was filled with her parents and frequently grandparents. She continued to describe this peaceful home filled with a joyful table of love.

As I listened, my heart began to ache, my breathing became shallow and my eyes filled with tears. Interesting how we all have different tables in our lives. I wish my table could be described the same way. As a child, I longed for my mother and father to be together, not only at the table but together as a couple.  Later in life, the desire for the family table was shattered by unrealistic expectations.

As I reflected on my own table from my past, I identified my plates of love, but love was not enough. My plates were full and overflowing with anger, hopelessness, sorrow, abandonment, and grace. You see, for those that knew me, they saw the girl who lived with the single mom. My life filled with several events that would shape me into who I am today. What people didn’t see were the two fathers, the struggle of racial identity and the insecurity of not knowing your true family.

I do not want to paint a tainted picture that there was a struggle all the time. I had several key players in my life. I had aunts, uncles, cousins, and siblings that filled the family circle. But, I did not have a real dad at my table. I had two men who played significant roles in my life. Today is not about my dad’s nor their individual purpose in my life, this story is the description of my table.

My table was like a four-course meal: The appetizer of anger, just teasing me for what is to come, the side dish of hopelessness, anticipating this side dish could fill the void, the main dish of sorrow, anticipating fabulous dish that disappoints, the cocktail of abandonment, just washing down the past. But, there is one dish left to come, it is the dessert of grace. Just when you thought it was all a waste, the final dish changes everything. The grace washes away the disappointment and creates a new flavor of forgiveness.

I realized that night, from the table of tears comes the cloth of cleanliness. What I received at my table was everything they were able to give. The dishes that they chose for their lives were from their menu of choice, not mine.

As time has passed and I get older, I realize, most tables are not the perfect table and menus are often changing. But I have decided, I can fill my table with those desirable dishes of love, integrity, joy, and faithfulness. I can be the person that I want to be and I am sure, for my children there will always be a few undesirable dishes on their plates. However, they too will have the opportunity to set their own table one day.

When the river meets the ocean

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These past two years have been a roller coaster of experiences!

Reflection seems to be the key to my sanity!

To put things in perspective: I suffered the unexpected loss of my mother, lived 600 miles from my husband, developed an unexplained rash that covered my entire body, beginning stages of menopause with a 30 pound weight gain, my daughter got married, my son walking away from a college and soccer scholarship and moving back to Florida, changing jobs, moving to and from two states, spending a ton of money and going back to school.

Wow, doesn’t that sound exhausting? Yes, it has been a journey and I am tired! I figured, if I didn’t laugh. I would cry!

Over the last year and a half, I tried to put everything into perspective and justify my decisions to move from Kentucky to Florida, back to Kentucky and back to Florida!

However, the more desperate I became, the more I sounded like I was challenging God. I found myself angry and questioning how he could allow this experience to impact our family in so many ways.

At times, I found myself in the deepest despair…. Working during the day and crying throughout the night. With my husband staying back in Florida to work his job and care for our son, we could only saw him on weekends. I tried to be the rock for my two sons that were staying with me in Kentucky.

I tried to be strong and I leaned on friends, family and my church to comfort me. We were blessed with a community of support, I had a great job, and everything was comfortable, but inside, I was cracking everyday!

Some people didn’t understand my struggle. There are many people that have spouses in the military and those who work out of town, but, this was different. We were paying for two homes, traveling, and living in two cities … not sure who would make the final decision to make it stop.

As more time passed , the more comfortable we became. It was becoming the new normal. Our children were acting as though we were a split family home. My husband and I could see the complacency in our children and ourselves. We felt overwhelmed with loneliness, our marriage suffering, at times, becoming angry and being resentful and often blaming each other for remaining apart.


My prayers became demanding and bold, often begging God to show up and give us a sign. The kids became increasingly comfortable in school, the community and in the home that we were renting.

I felt guilty that my husband was thriving at his job in another state and so was I. My kids became increasingly comfortable but I was struggling to give it my all. I was thankful that I was surrounded by supportive people,

I was distracted and in despair daily. I, felt guilty, which limited my ability to enjoy my surroundings and emotionally invest. I was constantly worrying about making the wrong decision.

But…… Every time I prayed, I heard God say.. Trust me.


The problem was, I didn’t want trust…. I wanted results and direction; I didn’t want to be responsible for making the life changing decisions. I was tired.

And then it happened, the river flowed back!

We made the decision to reconnect our family in Florida. A decision that is hard for two High School boys who do not understand the financial and emotional impact living in two locations had on our family.
Excited to return our lives to normal, but sad to leave family, good friends, my job and my wonderful church.

Today, I am thankful for the crazy experiences and opportunities we have had. And most importantly, I lean on the security that God did not give up on us. I continue to hear God whisper in my ear.. “Trust Me”

Now, I am embracing new opportunities, surrounded by wonderful people and thankful to have my family in one place.

I can finally rest knowing that God is in control and always present, no matter where we are in our journey or where we live!

What Box Do I Check?

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Multi-cultural, mixed, bi-racial, two or more races, blended ……those are some of the words we often hear to describe people that are mixed with different races. We see mixed couples and children everywhere. Diversity has become the new normal.

Oreo, N….., white girl wanna-be, or what exactly are you? Those are the words I heard growing up. Although the multicultural world today is more accepting of us, it doesn’t discount the fact that we still continue to search for the box that fits our identity. This may not be a problem for everyone but I can definitely speak for me.

All of my life I searched for something, somewhere to fit, to belong. I grew up in predominately white neighborhoods. My mother tried so hard to give us a better life by living in areas that had good schools and nice homes. The areas she picked were less diverse than the one she moved to my junior year.

For me, it really did not matter when I lived, my story was the same.

I had curly black hair during the time when Bo Derek and Farah Fawcett were running down the beach with their beautiful blond hair blowing in the wind. My face covered in freckles, full lips, and tan skin. I didn’t fit the typical look in the neighborhood I was living in.

My parents lived in two different states so I would grow up in two different worlds. One white and one Black, intertwined with multiracial relationships and hidden stories of trauma and deceit. My mother, the blond European, Irish girl would beg me to check the black box, hoping the minority advantages would come my way. My father’s preaching a promised life I could have by embracing my white side, meanwhile not shielding me from the deceit and secrets that would make an emotional impact later in my life, much deeper than the racial struggle.

There was so much going on in my world as a young adult and I felt broken, ashamed and disconnected.

I hid behind my personal struggle; I would lie about my true identity and tried so hard to blend into the environments I encountered. I would hang out with my white friends who didn’t consider me black and my black friends begged me to drop the valley girl accent and dive into my destiny. Choices, choices. I was overwhelmed, confused, emotionally shattered, and longing for a life where I wasn’t different! I didn’t want to choose a side.

I am both black and white and culturally dissatisfied. Where would I belong?

I prayed to God to find myself, to reveal my identity. What would it be? Would I fit into the white community? Would I blend into the black culture and could I meet the expectations of each? Funny, how all of those thought ran through my mind. Where did I belong?

Today, times have changed but the experience is still fresh. You see, I am the OTHER, I am black, I am white, I am both, I am mixed, I am saved and I am loved. It was hard, hard to find my place. I was searching in the infinity circle of choice, the circle that would never end.

I do not need to pick a side to love who I am.

I embraced the struggle to release the butterfly. I had to see the beauty in both worlds. I refused to be backed against the wall, picking a box.

I value my creation and blessed to have the opportunity to experience both worlds. I am thankful for the grace I received for my wiliness to submit.

I do think it would be nice to have a box that describes my cultural blend but that is the best part…… I am unique, I am willing, I am loved and I am creatively designed, just as all of us are. Those are the words I hear now and bring me to a place of peace……….and there is not a box for that.

Photo by Zaw Win Tun on Pexels.com

Why The Mixed Momma

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Well, I have been asked a few times, why did you title your blog Themixedmimma? It is just how it sounds, I am mixed (my mother was white and my father is black); I am a mother of 4 (1 girl and 3 boys).

Both words describe significant events in my life.

I love being who I am and raising such amazing children. I would like to say that I have always been that confident and my life has been, challenge free, but that would be not be reality.

With this blog my intention is to share the experiences I have had growing up. I was born in the 70’s as a bi-racial child. Now I am raising children in the 21st century. My children have asked, when filling out forms that ask them to identify their race,”Momma, what box do I check?” I hope you enjoy!

My Crazy Momma

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Remembering my crazy momma on Mothers Day!

Yes, the words crazy momma …comes to mind when I think of Mother’s Day. It is funny how everyone shares different experiences of their mothers and their relationships. Our minister shared some of those thoughts people have this morning in church and it really touched home with me. Funny how mothers come in all shapes, sizes and symbols! When I was growing up, I had an idea of what or who I thought my mom should be. When I was younger, for the holiday’s I would by buy my mom a variety of long dresses and other conservative attire. When she would open her gift, she would glance at me, tilt her head and smile. I thought … wow, I did a great job picking out those clothes. How amazing my mom would look in the things I would pick out for her to wear. It is funny when I look back, how I never saw her wear those dresses. I would see her in shorter skirts, flowing blouses with the big sleeves (ones like Prince would wear), dresses that were suitable for her to wear to the night club, and a variety of uniforms she would wear to multiple jobs. One day, when I was 15, I handed her another proud gift. This time, she said it “Please stop buying me these old lady dresses, I will not wear those.” Well, there it was, from the mouth of my loving mother. She confirmed her lack of interest to not dress conservatively. I would be lying if that was the only eye opening experience I had during my young adult years. Looking back, I watched my mom be the mother she thought she should and could be, wearing the clothes that she considered sexy and fun, clothes she wanted to wear, and hanging in the places that I would join her at when I turned 18. You see, my mother was crazy and she was wild. However, she was also a struggling single mother, who had experienced a life of traumatic events, suffered from depression and anxiety, someone who had experienced many failed relationships and worked several jobs to care for my brother and me.

When I was growing up, I yearned for a normal life like my friends had. I wanted to sit at the table as a family for dinner, go to Sunday church and see my mother in her long conservative dresses. All of the unrealistic expectations I had of my perfect mother . The reality, dinners were me and my little brother eating dinner while my mom went to work, we attended church during the holidays and other important events, and she often left the house in her short shirts to go to the club. Looking back, my ideal mother was in my head, my vision of perfection was tainted. I grew up frustrated and disappointed with my life.

Now I am a mother and my crazy momma has left this earth to early. I think about all of those times I was angry and disappointed, I wasted years with an unrealistic expectation for who she was and who I what I wanted her to be.  I spent a life time trying to change and direct my mother. I wanted her to go to church, I wanted her to have a stable relationship, I wanted her to dress conservatively, and I wanted her to be the perfect mother. Oh the regret I have, I wish that while she was alive I would have told her, Mom I love who you are not who I want you to be!

 I look back and I realize that I did have the perfect mother that God hand picked for me. I had a mom that taught me to take care of myself and do not take NO for an answer, to chase my dreams, to get an education and be myself. I wasn’t aloud to whine, not because she didn’t care about my feelings but because life was hard and I needed to fight. She taught me that if I longed for the Lord than I could do something about it. Through despair came desire. She taught me that mental illness is real and simple things to some, are sometimes debilitating to others. She taught me that if I didn’t want to live in a neighborhood that wasn’t safe, I better do something about it to move. She taught me not to pity but to pray, not always by example but by lack of.

You see, my mom was crazy, in so many ways she was teaching me life skills, intentional or not. She taught me lessons that I am forever grateful. I stand tall, walk the walk and fight the fight. Now that she is gone I realize that while she was alive, I wish I would have had the opportunity to thank her, thank her for the failed and successful parenting attempts and thank her for being the best she thought she could be. I wasted so many years feeling sorry for myself, suffering, and mourning my lack of a perfect upbringing. But I have four beautiful children, a loving husband and a totally dysfunctional life that I wouldn’t trade for anything. Without those experiences, I would not have longed for the life I didn’t have. I long for the Lord, read my bible, have dinner with my family and I am thankful for whom I have become. My kids will say, I definitely have a crazy side and I am sure they want me to be the perfect mother, the perfect mother I will never be. Perfection is not possible except in our Savior. As I reflect, I am not a victim of poor parenting but a survivor of a little bit of crazy mixed with a whole lot of love, Happy Mother’s Day!