I was in Clubhouse, an new social media platform where conversations can be had with people across the globe. It was a memoir writing session. Individuals in the room shared their writing challenges as well as tips on how to begin the writing process. One woman wondered about including real names in the memoir she is writing and how she might find a third grade teacher to get her permission to include her name in the memoir. A young man in the virtual room suggested she try Facebook because “That’s where you can find the Old Timers, for sure you’ll find her there!” He chuckled as he shared this tidbit.
Wait a minute! I’m on Facebook! Does that make me an Old Timer and when exactly did that happen?
Yes, the date on my calendar moves me into a certain chronological season and yes, the gray roots of my hair are determined to take control, but Old Timer?
I walked into that virtual Clubhouse a little over a month ago. I had no clue what to expect. I really was a reluctant member, only accepted the invite because a friend wanted me to join her on the platform for a room she was moderating. After the session ended, I wandered into another room, a room filled with professional musicians. What could I possibly have in common with a room filled with professional musicians.
I can’t remember the topic but I did share my view on the subject matter. But I wanted to make a connection with those in the room where everyone seemed to know each other. My daughters are professional musicians so I decided to name drop and lo and behold, some in the room recognized their names. I was adopted by osmosi. BUT, the man who has known my daughter since her early foray into the music industry as a professional decides that from this point that I will be Mama D! From that point forward, as if a text was sent out, every room I’ve stepped into has decided that my name should be “Mama Donna,” or “Mama D.”
The joke is on me for if it’s one thing that I have never wanted to be, I never wanted to be “Mother,” or “Mama.” No, not in the biological sense. I have three daughters and I do answer to Mama when they call. But, in my culture, once a woman reaches a certain age in some church denominations, she almost automatically becomes “Mother.” My image of that church mother is one of a little old woman dressed in white who sits in the Amen corner clutching a purse filled with crumpled tissue and lint covered peppermints. I am not that woman … or so I thought!
Well, apparently, I am that woman, the woman whose voice (because Clubhouse is only audio and your picture) dictates that her she should be called “Mama,”
The revelation that comes with this moment in time is how often my new title “Mama,” also comes with “you have so much wisdom.” I do not think of myself as a wise woman; I just share from the reservoir of my life experiences and I don’t see that as an age thing. It is a God moment in those Mama moments.
God has gently nudged me into a new season, a season of nurturing and encouraging men and women that I may never meet in person but to whom I have been adopted as “Mama.” He is refining my view of my place and redefining my view of me in this season as He continues to pull me into the purpose He has already designed for me.
God has a sense of humor and I’m learning to laugh right along with Him!