Witness Me
There is a blemished building just North of my apartment, tucked in between a newly constructed stucco building and a huddle of classic Harlem Brownstones. Compared to the buildings around it, with their classically carved exterior molding boasting black, green, and red African-American pride, and whose historical roots penetrate for miles in defiance of being disturbed, it’s an unsure fiddly structure during the cold seasons.
I’ve been a witness to this building for three years.
Every year around November, skeletons of brown ivy roots begin to scale it’s walls like abandoned spider webs, forgotten, clinging to hidden crevices showing signs of there once being life. It’s metal framed windows hold dated and dusty unused window units, with a single fire escape casting shadows down it’s naked dark brick.
I’ve been a witness to this building for three years.
It’s not always like this. I remember walking in my apartment across the street the Summer of 2021 and feeling like I was in a New York City treehouse; an oasis of greenery peeking from below, inviting me to “come outside,” like an anxious toddler ready to escape the monotony of carpeted floors and television. As I stared across, there she was. This beautiful building covered in green ivy. It was the most beautiful interruption to the adopted aesthetic of the city. Big brush strokes of God’s most beautiful offerings of nature. The ivy was like soft skin embracing the buildings architectural curves, snuggling windows, and enfolding on fire escapes. She was so wild and beautiful. The most beautiful building to behold. But as the seasons passed, Fall came and I saw her surrender to the earth for the first time. It was not like the slow waltz of life that happens in the Spring. It was like a true and sudden death. The cold air blew, and though she clung to her roots with all her might, her leaves were gone in a matter of days.
I’ve been a witness to this building for three years.
I’ve learned that she’s okay with these barren seasons, for she knows that one day the Spring air will begin to blow and specks of green will begin to form. And as the days pass, her beauty will return.
I’ve been a witness to this building for three years.
And what a joy it is to be constantly reminded that all of earth moves in seasons and cycles. That just because the air around her be frigid, doesn’t mean she isn’t alive. That in confidence, she waits in stillness. That the revelation of her beauty is safe for all to see in every part of the process. That she, in fact knows just what she needs to grow again and again and again. Year, after year, after year.
I’ve been a witness to this building for three years.
Often times, we are like this building. Only feeling the shifting shadows of the sun as we move through the different seasons of our life, but not knowing how much the light source is penetrating and actually creating newness within. We may have moments when we feel like the awkward unsure one on the block or others when we feel most alive; Seasons where all we can do is compare or maybe some seasons where it’s hard to identify where we even are in the process of change and transformation.
In these moments, I invite you to look across the way. There you might lock eyes with a witness. They sit, in awe, on the balcony in perfect distance from your heart. Someone who has been standing at the window of your soul being a keeper of the testament of you for years. Watching you navigate and weave through moments in ways that have astonished them; in ways that have transformed them. Lock eyes with the one who has pulled up a seat to collect the evidence of God’s most beautiful offering that is you. Because often times it’s hard to see how beautiful you are from inside the vessel.
And in this locking of eyes, I am sure you will hear them say with delight “Darling, I’ve been a witness to this building for years.”