Conversations from the Room
The Room
A Beginning Reflection
Years ago, I lived in a room once occupied by Dr. W. E. B. Du Bois.
At the time, I thought I was asking questions about history, race, justice, and identity.
Now, as a pastor, I realize I was asking something deeper.
I was asking human questions.
Do we matter?
Are we seen?
Does God know where we are?
The Room
Years ago, as a graduate student working on my master's at Atlanta University, I lived in a room once occupied by Dr. W. E. B. Du Bois.
At the time, I did not fully understand the weight of that.
I knew his name. I knew something of his work. I knew he had asked questions that helped shape generations of conversation about race, justice, education, identity, and equality.
But I was young.
And when you are young, you do not always know when history is sitting quietly beside you.
Sometimes you can be standing in a sacred place and not yet have the language to call it sacred.
That room became more than a room to me.
It became a place of questions.
At first, I thought I was asking historical questions.
Then I thought I was asking racial questions.
Then I thought I was asking questions about justice, equality, opportunity, and identity.
But now, after years of living, serving, preaching, teaching, grieving, surviving, and pastoring people through pain, I realize I was asking human questions.
Questions every soul asks in one form or another.
Do you see me?
Do I matter?
Am I more than what people assume about me?
Is there a purpose for my life?
Will anyone notice what I have carried?
Will anyone recognize what I have survived?
Will anyone call me by my name and not by my label?
Those are not small questions.
They are the questions beneath tears.
The questions beneath anger.
The questions beneath ambition.
The questions beneath loneliness.
The questions beneath the smile people wear when they do not want anyone to know how invisible they feel.
I have come to believe that one of the deepest hungers of the human spirit is not merely the hunger for success.
It is the hunger to matter.
Not to be famous. Not to be worshiped. Not to be placed above others.
But to be seen.
To know that our presence has meaning.
To know that our life has weight.
To know that our existence is not an accident.
To know that if we disappeared, somebody would notice.
Maybe that is why rejection hurts so deeply.
Rejection does more than deny affection. It threatens significance. It whispers to the soul, "You do not matter here."
And if a person hears that message often enough, they may spend the rest of their life trying to prove it wrong.
Some try to prove it through achievement.
Some try to prove it through relationships.
Some try to prove it through titles.
Some try to prove it through money.
Some try to prove it through being needed.
Some try to prove it through being loud.
Some try to prove it through being strong.
Some try to prove it by never admitting they are wounded.
But beneath all of it, there is often a quieter cry:
See me.
Not my category.
Not my label.
Not your assumption.
Not the version of me you created before you knew me.
See me.
That is where my questions have changed.
When I was younger, I looked at the world and wondered why people fought so hard to be recognized.
Now, as a pastor, I have sat with enough broken hearts to understand that recognition is not a small thing.
To be unseen is a kind of suffering. To be overlooked can become a wound. To be ignored can make a person question their worth. To be misnamed, mislabeled, misunderstood, or dismissed can cause a person to wonder whether their life has value in the eyes of others.
And yet, Scripture gives us another truth.
Before people see us, God sees us.
Before people understand us, God knows us.
Before people call us by name, God has already known our name.
The Overlooked Who Were Seen by God
Hagar was alone in the wilderness, but God saw her.
David was left in the field while others were considered, but God saw him.
Zacchaeus was hidden in a tree, but Jesus saw him.
The woman with the issue of blood was hidden in a crowd, but Jesus felt her reach.
The Samaritan woman was known by her reputation, but Jesus saw her soul.
Blind Bartimaeus was told to be quiet, but Jesus heard his cry.
Peter failed publicly, but Jesus saw beyond his failure.
Again and again, God steps into the lives of people who thought they were invisible. That matters to me.
Because many people are not just tired. They are tired of being unseen.
They are tired of being reduced to one moment, one mistake, one label, one rumor, one struggle, one season, one stereotype, one failure, or one chapter of their story.
They are tired of people seeing what happened to them but not seeing them.
They are tired of being present in rooms where their souls are absent from the conversation.
And maybe that is why this project had to begin with a room. Because a room is not just walls, windows, and furniture.
A room can hold memory. A room can hold questions. A room can hold silence. A room can hold history.
A room can hold the sound of a young woman wrestling with things she does not yet have words for.
I did not know then that I would become a pastor.
I did not know then how many people I would sit with in their pain.
I did not know then how often I would hear the same wound spoken in different ways.
"My father never saw me."
"My mother never understood me."
"My spouse does not hear me."
"My children do not know what I sacrificed."
"My church does not know what I carry."
"My family only sees my mistakes."
"My job only sees what I produce."
"People know my name, but they do not know my heart."
Different stories. Different lives.
Same ache.
See me.
That is why I am returning to the room. Not physically, but spiritually.
I am returning as a woman who has lived long enough to understand questions differently.
I am returning as a pastor who has learned that people do not just need answers. Sometimes they need acknowledgment. Sometimes they need someone to say, "I see you." Sometimes they need someone to remind them, "God sees you."
Sometimes they need someone to help them believe that their life still matters.
This is not a political journey for me. It is not an academic exercise. It is not a debate.
It is a pastoral conversation.
It is a return to the questions that began in one room but now reach into every room where people are trying to survive, heal, grow, believe, and become.
The room was the beginning. The questions are still speaking.
And now, I am ready to listen again.
These are my conversations from the room.
More conversations are coming.
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