✨ LOOKING BEYOND OUR FAULTS ✨

✨ LOOKING BEYOND OUR FAULTS ✨

Cher Dont Trip Over Dollars Tryna Pick Up Dimes The Creator Aint Droppin Blessings for Decoration

By Kateb Shunnar

Down by the Mississippi early in the morning, when the fog hangs low like it had a long night and aint fully awake yet, thats when good news likes to sneak in. It moves quiet, tiptoeing like somebody trying not to wake a cranky toddler. And honestly, that is probably wise, because most of us wake up already irritated by life, traffic, bills, and whatever foolishness our family text thread decided to start at 6 17 in the morning. Good news tries to approach gentle, polite even, and we wave it away like mosquitoes, telling it, Hold on, Im busy stressin. Meanwhile, the Creator is tapping our shoulder like, Baby, Im bringin peace. You want it or not. But somehow we are always too occupied replaying old arguments and imaginary comebacks we should have said at Thanksgiving 2015. We have gotten so used to negativity dripping into our spirit like that bathroom faucet that refuses to shut up and needs one of those fancy cartridges nobody knows how to install that we forget good news even exists. Or worse, we assume it must be a scam.

Sometimes I sit watching that river roll by and I swear it sighs at us. It has seen every kind of foolishness float downstream pride, anger, broken promises, folks who swear they not messy while stirring the pot with both hands. And I heard an elder once say, A wise man leaves an inheritance to his childrens children. A beautiful sentiment, truly. But the way he said it, leaning back like he invented wisdom itself, I wanted to ask him how many childrens children HE left anything to besides unpaid bills and a collection of bad decisions. But he was not entirely wrong. Everything we do drifts forward into someone elses tomorrow. Every habit the petty ones, the righteous ones, the ones we pretend arent there they all shape something. If doing something for fifty days turns it into a lifestyle, then some folks out here been perfecting the art of negativity so long they got black belts in bitterness.

And let me tell you about Old Man Pierre, a Cajun folklore figure only the bayou could produce. That man collected peoples flaws like he was gathering seashells on Grand Isle. Every time someone messed up, he would toss their fault in this big wicker basket strapped to his back. Talk about determination. Weddings went in the basket. Church went in the basket. Funerals went in the basket too. Meanwhile Pierres own faults, those he stuffed in a burlap sack so heavy it dragged behind him like a disappointed ancestor. One day the Creator said, Alright, enough, and sent a gust down the bayou strong enough to snatch wigs off heads and shift entire attitudes. It flipped that mans basket upside down. Everybodys faults flew everywhere like Mardi Gras confetti. Folks were diving around, mortified, hollering, Wait, that is my jealousy. That is my gumbo stealin habit. Who put my lying tongue in here. And Pierre, staring at all this mess he had been collecting for years, finally whispered, Maybe I am the problem. The Creator cleared His throat from the clouds and said, Ya think, darling. Moral of the story stop acting like the spiritual police. You are not perfect enough to be cataloging everybody elses sins like rare collectibles.

And speaking of things we collect for no reason, let me make something crystal clear never jump over dollars for dimes. I do not care how shiny that dime looks, how much it winks at you, how many possibilities it thinks it has, a dime is still just ten cents. Meanwhile that dollar the Creator placed right in front of you is steady, solid, blessed. And somehow folks still be out here passing up what is promised for little distractions that jingle loud but lead nowhere but heartbreak and therapy. It is like walking past a seafood platter to fight over a leftover cold fry. Why. For what. Who raised yall. The Creator hands us substance and we go chasing sparkles like confused pigeons.

Then there is Miss Felice Broussard, now she was a character. A lady so Southern she made sweet tea look weak. She refused, absolutely refused, to tell anyone her age. If you asked her, she would smile sweetly and say, Cher, I am exactly as many years older than you as I need to be. And she would sip her tea like she was guarding state secrets. Woman treated her age like classified information sealed in a vault guarded by angels with federal clearance. And what she taught me is this you do not owe people details about your life. Not your struggles, your regrets, your healing process, or your business. Half the people prying cannot even handle their own truth. You think they can carry yours. Please.

I will tell you another thing we have got to stop being messy. And I do not mean the cute, slightly chaotic messy. I mean the deep fried, extra seasoned, spicy kind of messy. Backbiting that could count as cardio. Gossiping so intense it ought to come with a microphone. Resting ugly faces so strong they could curdle milk. Words like knives. Attitudes like thunderstorms. Some of yall swear the devil is attacking you when really it is just your own mouth.

And listen, do not grow numb. Do not let life turn you into one of those stone statues uptown on a front porch that aint moved since the Saints last won the championship. Depression will try to convince you that suffering is your destiny. Your inner critic will try to make you think punishment is holy. Baby, stop volunteering to be miserable. Wallowing is not a reward. It is a trap door. And guilt. It has one job to nudge you back on track. After that, it is useless baggage. Throw it out like leftovers you know you are not gonna reheat.

You cannot let peoples opinions define you. Some folks cannot even navigate their own life and here you go letting them label you like they the Creator Himself. No maam. No sir. No indeed. People will talk because that is their hobby. Let them. You are not what they call you, you are what the Creator designed you to be. And once you truly internalize that, you walk different. You stop apologizing for your existence. You stop letting people beat you down emotionally or spiritually. You stop handing out permission to hurt me passes.

And baby, pride will eat you alive if you let it, chew you up like crawfish Étouffée. Pride is why some folks are stuck in drama loops like poorly written reality TV. Pride is why some people defend their foolishness with the energy of a lawyer who barely passed the bar. Let it go. Release that funky attitude. Loosen that resting hostile face. Let compassion slip back in before your soul starts wheezing.

So here we are again, at the Mississippi River, ancient, stubborn, holding secrets from upriver and dreams headed south. It keeps moving, carrying mud, stories, mistakes, hope, and who knows what else. The river does not stop just because yesterday was messy. It flows anyway. And maybe that is the lesson keep moving. Keep seeking better. See beyond your faults and everybody elses. Do not step over blessings to chase distractions. Quit wrestling with the affection designed to save you. Quit letting folks drag your spirit when the Creator is trying to pull you higher.

And when someone asks too many questions about your journey, your growth, your peace, or Lord help us your age, just take a page from Miss Felice, give a sweet smile, and say, Baby, I am exactly how old and how blessed I need to be to mind my business.

To be Continued....

Make A Donation