Chicken Soup for the African American Woman's Soul by Jack Canfield

bad. I’m just now learning how to size myself for a bra,” said another, just three years shy of her thirty-fifth birthday.
    In sharing our stories, we share our strengths. Somehow, we discover how ridiculous our beliefs can be. The more I shared my story with my friends, the more I learned and appreciated what I now understand as the sacred feminine. Just as the moon makes its way around the Earth every twenty-eight days in a cycle, so, too, does my body cycle to renew and regenerate itself, and what could be more liberating than that? What could be more spiritually freeing than knowing how connected we are, as women, to the divine plan of the universe? What could be more life-affirming than the body of a woman, so fruitful and packed with seeds of possibilities? What could be greater than the stories and poems and music and paintings and the worlds of new ideas all birthed from the body and heart and soul of a woman?
    What I know now as a woman that I didn’t know as a girl is that not only is my body beautiful and sacred, it is mine to celebrate in the ways that I choose. That “time of the month” is no time for crying or feeling cursed, but for me at least, a time to go within and a reminder to take good care of myself: sometimes a tea time, sometimes a leave-me-alone-for-a-good-long-bath time, sometimes, even, a dancing time. I am science, and I am spirit, but I am nobody’s curse.
    One more thing I know is this: when that day arrives for my daughter, I will curl my arms around her shoulders and welcome her into the fold—the fold of being a woman. I will celebrate that milestone with her, not mourn its coming. There we will be, hand in hand, and this time it won’t be my imagination.
    Angel V. Shannon

Keeping Faith
    A doctor . . . a lawyer . . . an actress . . . a queen! That’s what she’ll be! I couldn’t wait to see what my new daughter would become. As an African American woman, I wanted to adopt children of African American descent and raise them to be well-loved, confident, productive members of society. Finally it was happening. My dream was coming true.
    The call came after months of waiting. I was in my office. It had been so long since I had heard from the Department of Children’s Services, I had almost given up hope. It seemed as if I was never going to have another daughter. My biological daughter was eight and had been hoping for a sister for more than three years. I sipped my coffee and answered the phone on the third ring. The social worker on the other end told me that there was a little girl with no place to go. She immediately aroused every maternal instinct in my body. Imagine a child not knowing the warm, constant love and support of a parent. I was ready to shower her with affection. At the tender age of three, she had already been in eleven different foster homes. The worker continued to brief me by explaining that the child needed to be placed within the hour.
    That didn’t leave much time to make a decision. Not only was I short on time, I was short on information about this child as well. The only details available were that she was African American and potty trained and that her name was Faith. The social worker wanted to know if I would be interested. Why, of course I was interested! Faith was coming home.
    In preparation for my new daughter’s arrival, I ran out to buy things for her room, including a beautiful picture of a black ballerina. There was no time to tell my other four children, who were in school, that their new sister was coming home. Alone, I arranged stuffed toys on the bed and hung the picture on the wall. When I thought that everything was suitable, I washed my face, brushed my hair, and headed to the front room to sit down and catch my breath.
    Unable to relax, I stood anxiously in the window awaiting Faith’s arrival. Finally, after what seemed to be hours, I saw a white van pull up in front of my house. My