REVELATION: THUGS & THINKERS

REVELATION

There is something I need you to understand before you read this.

I am not using Scripture to make my story sound spiritual.

I'm discovering that Scripture has been sitting underneath parts of my story that I didn't even know how to name.

That's different.

This isn't me finding a Bible verse to put on top of something I already decided.

This is me living something, getting quiet enough to finally understand it, and then realizing:

Wait. God already showed us this.

That's revelation.

P.S. — I thought yesterday's P.S. was the end. Apparently, it was the beginning.

Before you read another word:

Check your heart posture.

Check your spirit.

Get rooted.

Because we are at war.

And I'm not saying that metaphorically because it sounds good in a blog.

I mean spiritual warfare.

Look around.

Countries that were allies don't know how to be allies anymore. People who brokered peace are becoming part of the conflict. Families are fighting. Siblings against siblings. Parents against children. Patients against healthcare providers. Friends against friends.

Everything feels like it is colliding.

And I believe what is happening spiritually is spilling over into what we can physically see.

So learn how to ground yourself.

Learn how to protect your sanctuary.

Learn how to pray without opening your mouth.

And get in your Word.

Even when it doesn't make sense.

Read it.

You may read something today and wonder why the hell God brought you there.

It might not be for today.

He's storing it.

Because one day you might be too wounded to go looking for Scripture.

You might be bleeding.

You might be limping.

You might not have your Bible.

You might not even have your voice.

But your spirit will remember something your eyes read years ago.

Muscle memory.

Spiritual muscle memory.

God was giving you ammunition before you knew there was going to be a war.

And maybe that's part of what yesterday was about.

Because let me tell you something about that woman who pressed POST yesterday.

She didn't want to.

That piece had already been written.

I had been sitting with it.

I went round and round and round with God.

I cringed.

I argued.

I resisted.

I had to turn on Tupac's “Hit 'Em Up” just to work up enough nerve to press the damn button.

That's how badly I did not want to do it.

But God was dealing with me about obedience.

You cannot say you're going to follow Me and then decide obedience only counts when you agree with the assignment.

You don't get to sow seeds your whole life and then ask for the harvest while refusing to do what the Harvester tells you to do because this particular instruction makes you uncomfortable.

Damn.

Because that's what I wanted.

I'll do the beautiful obedience.

I'll tell them about grace.

I'll tell them about mercy.

I'll tell them about faith.

I'll tell them about the things that hurt as long as I've already healed enough to make them presentable.

But this?

God said:

Show it.

And I didn't want to.

But I did.

So there is no apology coming today.

There were uncomfortable truths yesterday.

There were ugly truths.

There were words some people probably wish I hadn't used.

But there were no lies.

And if the only thing you took away from yesterday was a cuss word, maybe this P.S. really is for you.

Check your heart posture.

Because sometimes God sends the preacher.

And sometimes He sends the thug.

Which brings me to something I just learned about myself.

I WAS A SECRET

My story didn't start when I became Mama Lion.

It didn't start when I became a wife.

It didn't start when I became a mother.

It didn't start with Darren.

It didn't start with Jaxon.

It didn't start with grief.

It didn't start with death.

It didn't even start when I took my first breath.

My story started in a womb nobody knew I was in.

“For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother's womb.” — Psalm 139:13

Nobody knew I was coming until I was here.

There wasn't a beautiful baby shower announcing my arrival.

There wasn't this beautiful public preparation for Shantrael.

There wasn't celebration telling the world:

She's coming.

I just—

came.

And for forty years, I have carried something about that.

Shame.

Not because my existence was shameful.

I know that now.

But because somewhere along the way, the way I entered this world made me feel shame.

And then adults gave the shame vocabulary.

They called me:

Secret.

A grown person called a little girl Secret like it was a cute nickname.

And little Shantrael thought she had a special name.

I didn't know.

I didn't know what the adults knew.

I didn't know why that word was funny.

I didn't understand what was underneath it.

I was a child.

And now I'm forty years old, sitting in an in-home inpatient rehabilitation program, finally still enough to look backward at something I spent my entire life glancing over.

And suddenly I understand.

They were calling me what I had been.

A secret.

Hidden.

Something people weren't supposed to know yet.

And before I even knew what a scarlet letter was, somebody had already handed me one.

S.

Secret.

And I wore that motherfucker.

I wore it so long I forgot somebody else gave it to me.

Maybe that's why I've spent so much of my life trying to prove that I deserve to be here.

Achieve.

Serve.

Give.

Show up.

Fix it.

Be smart.

Be useful.

Be needed.

Be chosen.

Choose me.

See me.

Please see me.

Maybe if I'm good enough.

Maybe if I'm smart enough.

Maybe if I serve enough.

Maybe if I love people correctly.

Maybe if I become indispensable.

Maybe if I'm obedient enough to God—

somebody will finally see me.

And this morning God said:

Girl.

I already did.

Woo.

Wait.

Because that one—

that one just hit me.

I've been trying to get chosen when I was already seen.

Before anybody knew I was coming—

God knew.

Before anybody called me Secret—

God knew my name.

Before I knew I had light—

He put it there.

Before I understood my gifts—

He gave them to me.

Before I knew my assignment—

He had one.

Jesus.

There it is.

Nobody knew.

God knew.

Nobody was preparing publicly.

God was forming privately.

Nobody announced me.

God already knew me.

And Jeremiah gives another picture of that truth when God tells Jeremiah that His knowledge of him preceded his birth.

Not Shantrael taking Jeremiah's assignment.

Don't do that.

I ain't trying to steal Jeremiah's job either.

I'm looking at a pattern:

Human beings becoming aware of somebody is not the beginning of God's awareness of them.

That means my existence didn't become legitimate when somebody finally saw me.

I was already seen.

I wasn't hidden from Him.

THE MANGER

And while I was saying all of this out loud this morning, God interrupted me.

Because I kept THINKING:

I don't want Jesus's job!

God already corrected me about my little three-day expectation.

There was no beautiful entrance for me.

No beautiful announcement.

No beautiful preparation.

And He took my mind to Jesus.

Now hold on.

I ain't Jesus.

Let's get that shit on record immediately.

Please put that in bold, underline it, highlight it, put flashing lights around it.

I don't want Jesus's job.

God and I have already discussed this.

But Jesus didn't arrive through a picture-perfect entrance either.

Mary and Joseph traveled.

There wasn't some luxury nursery waiting.

There was a manger.

But the biblical picture matters.

Luke 2 doesn't give us a glamorous entrance.

Mary gives birth.

Jesus is wrapped in cloths. And He's placed in a manger because there isn't appropriate guest space available to them.

That's Scripture. And later, Matthew tells us that the Magi came to the child, entered the house, bowed down and brought gift

And after He was here, people came bearing gifts.

Provision came.

His unconventional entrance did not make His existence illegitimate.

And that's when I realized something about my own story.

My needs were met once I was here.

My grandmother made sure of that.

Provision showed up.

Love existed.

I was cared for.

And maybe the entrance didn't have to be beautiful.

Maybe the entrance was never the evidence of my worth.

Maybe I've spent forty years judging the entire story by the delivery room.

God.

Thank You.

I honor that.

AND THEN I THOUGHT ABOUT “SECRET”

Because here's the thing.

Secret doesn't only mean shame.

Secret doesn't only mean hidden.

Secret doesn't only mean unnecessary information.

You know what else is secret?

The Secret Service.

Something protected because of its importance.

You know what else is a secret?

What God is going to do next.

You know what else used to be a secret?

My light.

Except that one isn't a secret anymore.

Matthew 5 says:

“You are the light of the world.”

People have been telling me for years that I have light.

I ran from that shit.

I didn't want to be seen.

I wanted to sit in the corner.

Let me do what I'm supposed to do.

Let me help.

Let me serve.

Let me get my little reward.

And then let me go back over there where nobody is looking.

I never wanted this.

And the funniest part?

I never even wanted to be a mother.

And motherhood became the very assignment that dragged me into the light.

Because Mama Lion couldn't stay hidden.

Convince the person carrying the lamp that she should hide it and she'll put the bowl over herself.

Jesus.

My cubs needed somebody willing to come out.

Somebody willing to fight.

Somebody willing to tell a doctor:

No.

Somebody willing to tell a system:

Try again.

Somebody willing to stand between her child and whatever was coming and say:

Come up off him.

Leave Jaxon alone.

You're gonna stop with Darren.

You ain't gonna play with Nolin.

And apparently—

God don't play about Shantrael either.

That's new information for me.

Because I spent a lot of years thinking I had to convince everybody—including God—that I was worth choosing.

And maybe this entire rehabilitation is teaching me:

Baby, you were already chosen.

THUGS & THINKERS

Now let's talk about my theology according to Shantrael:

Thugs and thinkers.

No, that phrase is not in your concordance.

Don't waste your time.

But the pattern I'm talking about?

It's there.

Peter had enough fight in him that when they came for Jesus, he pulled a sword and cut off the ear of the high priest's servant.

Jesus had to tell him to put the sword away.

That's my kind of Bible story because it tells the truth.

Peter loved Jesus.

Peter was ready to fight.

And Peter still had to learn that every fight isn't God's fight.

That's transformation.

Then Paul.

Educated.

Trained.

A thinker.

But before the road to Damascus, Paul was also participating in violent persecution of the church.

God didn't erase Paul's intensity.

He redirected it.

That's the revelation.

God can use intensity.

God can use intellect.

God can use courage.

God can use the person who doesn't scare easily.

But He has to transform the weapon before He can trust it with the assignment.

So maybe that's what I mean when I say:

Thug and thinker.

The thinker sees what's happening.

The thug ain't scared of what's happening.

And God says:

Give Me both.

I'll teach you what deserves your mind.

I'll teach you what deserves your fight.

Because an undisciplined thug can destroy something.

An arrogant thinker can outthink herself.

But somebody who can discern and stand?

Now we can work.

I've always been smart.

Always.

I've always been a thinker.

I analyze.

I connect things.

I see patterns.

I ask why.

I know who my Daddy is.

And I don't mean Abba right now.

I know who my Daddy is Shout out to Larry.

So apparently God decided to make me a combination:

Thug and Thinker.

And let me tell you something.

You probably don't want to fuck with somebody who is both.

Because the thinker is going to understand what you're doing.

And the thug ain't scared to tell you she understands it.

And then I started thinking about the people Jesus used.

THOSE men's résumé before transformation wasn't exactly meek and mild.

God repeatedly used people with intellect, intensity, rough edges, complicated histories, enormous personalities and enough audacity to actually go where He sent them.

God didn't need everybody polished.

He needed people willing to move.

People He could transform.

People who could think.

People who could fight.

People who could become disciplined enough to learn what was actually worth fighting for.

Thugs.

Thinkers.

And sometimes—

both.

And suddenly I'm sitting here thinking:

What if the enemy wasn't trying to make me believe I was a secret because I was insignificant?

What if the strategy was to make me believe I was insignificant because there was something in me worth hiding?

What if you put the scarlet letter on the child early enough that she spends the next forty years hiding her own light for you?

You don't even have to extinguish it.

Convince her to cover it herself.

Damn.

Now that is warfare.

JANUARY 1

And then there's my birthday.

January 1.

The year starts—

with me.

I've said that before like it's just a cute birthday fact.

But today?

It doesn't feel cute.

It feels like another piece of evidence.

January 1.

Beginning.

First.

A new year opens and there I am.

The girl nobody knew was coming arrived on a day the entire world recognizes as a beginning.

I was called Secret.

And born on a day that announces:

Something new has started.

Stay with me.

Because I don't completely know what that means yet.

And for once, I don't need to.

Maybe that's still part of the secret.

My assignment may still be a secret.

But I am not.

Not anymore.

WATER. FIRE. AND THE THING I ARGUE WITH GOD ABOUT.

Now let me keep one theological boundary clear.

Scripture gives us the Flood.

Genesis says God covenantally promised never again to destroy all flesh through floodwaters.

Second Peter later uses fire/judgment language concerning the present heavens and earth.

Revelation speaks about a new heaven and a new earth.

Those things are biblical.

My conversations with God about a future Bible?

That's Shantrael wrestling.

That's not me telling the church:

God said there's going to be Bible Part Two and I'm Chapter 17.

Absolutely not.

I'm telling you where my human mind goes when I talk to God.

Because I've told Him:

I don't want to become one of those stories somebody has to read to survive their own hell.

I've told Him:

I don't want to be one of the chapters people have to read someday.

I don't.

I read the Bible.

I know what happened to people who got chapters.

No, thank You.

Find somebody else.

And my mind goes places when I wrestle with God.

Scripture tells us about the flood.

Scripture also points toward judgment and a new heaven and a new earth.

And my human mind starts wondering about everything between what has already been written and whatever comes next.

And I tell God:

I don't want my life to become somebody else's lesson.

I don't want somebody generations from now reading about this woman who lost this and survived that and went through this and still believed.

I don't want the chapter.

But then comes the part I keep learning:

I don't get to negotiate obedience based on whether I like the assignment.

I don't even know what the assignment is.

So I'm not declaring myself a prophet.

I'm not announcing a new Bible.

I'm telling you about my wrestling with God.

Because Jacob wrestled too.

And apparently this is how Shantrael talks to God.

I ask questions.

I argue.

I cuss.

I cry.

I tell Him:

This shit doesn't make sense.

And then—

I obey.

Eventually.

Sometimes after Tupac.

MAYBE THE WOMEN STAND WATCH

And somewhere in that conversation, another thought came.

The women.

What if in this chapter, the women aren't background?

What if the women stand guard?

What if the women are the Secret Service?

What if we know how to recognize one another in the dark?

Women with melanin.

Women wearing crowns.

Women who have been through enough hell that pretty doesn't impress us anymore.

Women who know makeup doesn't make us beautiful.

Baby, sometimes the makeup just lets everybody know:

I'm shining today.

Women who bring life.

Women who protect life.

Women who tell the truth.

Women who demand accountability.

Women who can pray silently while everybody else thinks they're sitting there doing nothing.

Women who know when to nurture.

Women who know when to stand watch.

Women who know when something is wrong before anybody says a word.

Women who can carry both softness and steel.

Thugs and thinkers.

Thinkers and thugs.

Women who don't have to become men to be powerful.

Women who understand that the same body God designed to carry life can also carry authority.

This is where my revelation about women gets stronger when I actually open the Bible.

I don't need to say women in Scripture were mostly the problem.

That's not even the strongest evidence.

Look at Deborah.

Prophet.

Judge.

Leader.

People came to her for judgment.

When Barak was afraid to go without her, Deborah went.

A woman with spiritual authority who could discern and stand.

Thug and thinker.

Biblical edition.

Look at the woman described in Proverbs 31.

Strength.

Dignity.

Wisdom coming out of her mouth.

Care for her household.

Work in her hands.

Not weak.

Not decorative.

Not somebody waiting for the real people to arrive.

And then look at resurrection morning.

Mary Magdalene went to the tomb while it was still dark.

Stayed.

Wept.

Looked.

And according to John 20, the risen Jesus revealed Himself to her and sent her to tell the disciples.

Do you see what that does to my revelation?

A woman stood near the place everybody thought was the end—

and became a witness that it wasn't over.

Don't play with me.

Maybe that's why this idea of women standing watch keeps stirring in my spirit.

I'm not writing new Scripture.

I'm recognizing women who were already standing inside the one we have.

Women discerned.

Women led.

Women prophesied.

Women stayed.

Women witnessed.

Women carried the message.

Women carried life.

And yes—

every human being who has ever entered this world entered through the body of a woman.

God designed women with an extraordinary relationship to life itself.

That doesn't make women God.

It doesn't make women “the way”—Jesus explicitly identifies Himself as the way in John 14:6.

But it absolutely means womanhood does not have to be diminished for God to be exalted.

My chest can be up.

My crown can be on.

My melanin can shine.

My softness can remain.

My strength doesn't have to apologize.

Maybe the woman isn't the problem in this revelation.

Maybe she isn't the scarlet letter.

Maybe she isn't the secret somebody laughs about.

Maybe she is standing at the entrance to the cave saying:

You can't come in here.

Because somebody wounded is sleeping.

And I've got watch.

THAT BRINGS ME BACK TO THE CAVE

Because all of this started making sense only after I got quiet.

August 2.

Isolation.

I didn't know I was entering another level of inpatient rehabilitation.

I just knew I couldn't take another hit.

Eleven years of Mama Lion.

Eleven years of fighting for cubs.

And finally—

I was wounded.

Not cute wounded.

Not inspirational wounded.

Bleeding-out wounded.

Limping.

Crying.

Lamenting until my literal voice became raspy and eventually almost disappeared.

And I limped into the cave.

I didn't know I needed guards.

That's the part.

I thought I still had to guard myself.

Even bleeding.

Even exhausted.

Even unable to speak.

I thought I had to stay awake.

And that is why I couldn't sleep.

Two hours.

Wake up.

Two hours.

Wake up.

Because some part of me still believed:

If I go to sleep, who's watching?

And God answered a question I didn't know I was asking.

You only need one to stay awake.

Gethsemane.

Jesus asked those closest to Him to keep watch while He prayed in anguish.

They fell asleep.

And suddenly I understood why my spirit had been searching.

I wasn't asking everybody to save me.

I wasn't asking everybody to enter the cave.

I wasn't even asking everybody to understand the war.

I needed one person to stay awake.

One.

And while I was inside that cave, I would occasionally limp out.

Hospital?

Can't treat this wound.

Turn around.

Limp back.

Another place?

No peroxide here.

Turn around.

Limp back.

And then—

the hidden clinic.

The place nobody tells you about.

The place that isn't advertised.

The Underground Railroad kind of place.

The sign everybody can't see.

Only people on assignment recognize it.

I know the code.

Knock.

Door opens.

Come in.

Here's some bread.

Here's some water.

Here's something for the pain.

Let me patch that.

Now go back and rest.

And I would limp back into the cave.

Not knowing that while I was being treated—

somebody was still standing watch.

SEVEN

I thought three days.

God corrected me quickly.

Girl, you ain't Jesus.

You're right.

My bad.

Seven.

On the seventh day—

I came out.

Not healed.

Patched.

There's a difference.

Still limping.

Still wounded.

Still without my full voice.

But alive.

Fed.

Strong enough to stand.

And then I saw what had happened while I was inside.

THE FOUNDATION

The hurricane had already taken the roof.

The tornado took the rest of the house.

Then the earthquake came and cracked the only thing left.

The foundation.

And I limped into the cave thinking I had lost damn near everything.

But while I was in there—

God sent workers.

And they didn't all have the same assignment.

One stood guard.

Some brought food.

Some brought medicine.

Some prayed.

Some listened.

Some answered.

Some simply didn't turn their backs.

And every single time somebody did what God assigned them to do—

concrete.

Text message?

Concrete.

Voice note?

Concrete.

Prayer?

Concrete.

Bread?

Concrete.

Tylenol?

Concrete.

Standing watch?

Concrete.

Cash App?

Concrete.

And while I thought I was simply trying to survive inside the cave—

God was using people to fill the cracks in my foundation.

So when I came out on the seventh day, there still wasn't a house.

Listen to me.

There is no house.

No roof.

No walls.

Nothing pretty to photograph.

But I put one foot down.

Held.

Put the other one down.

Held.

Shifted my weight.

Held.

The foundation held me.

And that's when I knew:

This isn't Phoenix.

This isn't rebirth.

This isn't even about rising.

This is RELEVATION.

God let everything above the foundation be stripped away so I could finally see what I had actually been standing on.

And the earthquake cracked it.

But it couldn't remove it.

NO WEAPON

“No weapon formed against you shall prosper.”

Isaiah 54:17.

It never said the weapon wouldn't hit.

Because baby—

look at me.

It hit.

The hurricane hit.

The tornado hit.

The earthquake hit.

Death hit.

Grief hit.

Disappointment hit.

Isolation hit.

The weapons hit me so hard I limped into a cave bleeding and lost my damn voice.

So don't hand me a cute version of that Scripture.

The promise isn't that Shantrael walks through warfare untouched.

I have evidence of impact everywhere.

The promise I'm holding onto is:

It shall not prosper.

LUCY—

you hit me.

I'll give you that.

You wounded me.

You shook the house.

You took the roof.

You cracked some shit.

You had me crawling toward a cave.

But you made one mistake.

You didn't destroy the foundation.

And while I was recovering, God sent His people with concrete.

So here I am.

No roof.

No walls.

No house.

Still healing.

Still raspy.

Still limping a little.

Still not knowing what the assignment is.

But standing on something firm.

CHIRST IS MY FIRM FOUNTDATION......

And now I know something I didn't know forty years ago.

I was never unnecessary information.

I was never hidden from God.

I was never a mistake He needed somebody else to justify.

I was never the scarlet letter.

I was seen.

I was known.

I was provided for.

I was gifted.

I was given light.

And apparently I've spent forty years discovering what God knew before I ever took my first breath.

So let me introduce myself again.

My name is Shantrael.

I'm forty years old.

January 1 baby.

Thug.

Thinker.

Mama Lion.

Woman.

Wounded warrior.

Still learning.

Still arguing with God sometimes.

Still obedient enough to press POST when I'd rather throw the whole damn phone away.

Still standing.

And one more thing:

I am no longer a secret.

What God is building?

That's still classified.

My assignment?

Apparently, need-to-know information.

What happens next?

Secret.

But me?

No.

You can see me now.

The scarlet letter is off.

The light is uncovered.

The foundation is sealed.

Somebody is standing watch. I know their names and it's a SECRET!

And after 40 years of fighting everybody else's battles, the warrior finally got enough sleep to realize—

God had been guarding her too.

That ain't Phoenix.

That's revelation.

~ST

P.S. You can't keep a real one down.......She's back!!!!!! ROOTED....SUITED.......AND BOOTED!!!