To the Woman Who Served God

In memory of Linda Tynes Bradley, July 23, 1953 — April 19, 2023

overheard in the aftermath

she only looked this good in her casket
this is probably the only time she got to rest.
the only time she let herself be taken care of

she lived a long, hard life
(but even the Bible promises the wicked 70 years.
what is God’s promise for the poor Southern Black woman servant?)

she woke up in the morning and served
count it all joy. death is not the end
we don’t understand God’s timing
but we honor her sacrifice

Forgive me, Aunt Linda, for waiting until your death to write you. There are so many reasons why I didn’t, not many for why I couldn’t.

I’m sorry.

If I could ask you anything, I guess I would begin by asking how a woman like you learned to love God the way you did. Growing up, I always wondered why you loved God the way you do when God never brought you anything good. At least from my understanding.

For the eldest Blackgirlchild in a family of ten, life meant work. Breath meant work. It’s no surprise death brought you rest.

Grandma told us stories that you mothered alongside your mother and in her absence. She told me that the talk about you growing up was always about 4 things: your sweet spirit, your smarts, your developing body, and your tiny feet. Grandma marveled at your tiny feet. I can picture you now, dancing around in your shoes on the dirt roads of Dillon. As the oldest daughter of my mother’s children, I know what it’s like to be sweet, smart, and developing. To dance in red clay and know those moments will be the closest I’d get to childhood.

What did God bring you that you would thank Him for every night? Was it the opportunity to start life anew? To dance with dainty feet, big brains, and kind heart elsewhere?

Did God bring you to rural Louisiana to teach? Did He tell them to pay you so little for so long? To devote your childbearing years to carrying the promise of love, a return someday?

Was living a righteous life enough for you? Did you ever dream of eschewing your blessings and devoting yourself to yourself — the ultimate form of blasphemy? Did you ever wonder what was on the other side of faithfulness, especially when you knew faithfulness meant struggle? Did you ever dream of life beyond Heaven?

I know I did not have the courage to ask you then but I want to know why you married him? A man-turned-gift-from-God, a blessing that required your devotion. You remained faithful, gave your last breath to him. Moved when he moved — your blessing, your angel, your gift from God. The only “art” on the walls of your apartment was a homemade flyer with his face that declared that he was your angel. Maybe you held on to him so tightly because God didn’t give you many blessings.

And though you loved him, you experienced your worst fear: You died alone.

I remember you asking me if I had ever been on an airplane. (“Brendane — you been on them airplanes? How was it?”) I thought the question was silly. Airplanes ain’t nothing new. In fact, they are older than you. Your question reached the spark in your eyes; I knew it was genuine. I responded “Yes, ma’am. It’s so nice to go anywhere I want.” I wanted to ask you how you spent your whole life without flying, how you spent all that time in that one place with him. Was it because God was there?

I imagine that a kind, intelligent, and devoted woman like you fantasized about flying with Jesus upon his return. Maybe you were saving your tryst with the sky for when your body could the touch the clouds. Maybe you were waiting for a miracle beyond man’s hands and wisdom because you lived an unimaginable life. It would take an act of God to get you from the place, life, and people you already knew. The blessings God had already given you.

Did you ever wonder what was beyond the blessed life that God promised?

I’m always wondering, always asking myself, what aspect of Black life, especially Black womanhood, does not require a sacrifice of self. Was there ever a time where you didn’t have to give, to fold in slivers, chunks, and pieces of yourself to be considered useful (sometimes called lovable)? Were there ever blessings that came without an exchange?

I smile now because why should I, your great niece, know? Maybe the answers to my questions rest in a quiet space inside you where the pieces of yourself you chose to keep are safe, wrapped in an interiority that defies explanation. It is my hubris that declares that I can know you and that I should.

In the days after your transition, I hope that you will answer these questions for me, whether by whisper or wind, by verse or song, by dream or vision. I hope that I am able to sit at the foot of the cavern of your soul and listen. To encounter the fragments of you within and to squeeze them between my fingers. To connect with the unlovable (useless) pieces of you that you had to hide away from the world.

While life and breath may have meant work, may death bring you peace.

Love Always,
Brendane