F O R E WO R D •
There is no scarcity. There is no shortage. No lack of love,
of compassion, of joy in the world. There is enough.
There is more than enough.
Only fear and greed make us think otherwise.
No one need starve. There is enough land and enough food.
No one need die of thirst. There is enough water. No one
need live without mercy. There is no end to grace. And we
are all instruments of grace. The more we give it, the more
we share it, the more we use it, the more God makes. There
is no scarcity of love. There is plenty. And always more.
This is the universe my mother lived in. Her words. Her ways. This
is the universe she was raised in, by parents from rural Georgia who
came up in the generation after slavery. People who had lived with
many terrors but who knew terror was not God’s ﬁnal say. This is the
universe she taught me. What ever I call religion is this inclusive,
Christian, indigenous, Black, southern cosmology of compassion and
connectedness. It is the poetry of my mother’s life.
Mama died at the end of winter in 2004. For almost ten years, we
had been writing. Gathering up her stories—her long, sweet flashes of
brilliance, her prayers, what she remembered of her Woodlawn, Chi-
cago childhood and the high strong laughter of her mother and aunts;