Elizabeth "Mama Boot" Johnson can sure put a stompin' on the devil's head when she's of a mind to. And let me tell you, she's been of a mind to ever since I've known her, starting back in the Summer of 2004 in a Fort Smith, Arkansas government housing complex. White flight had done happened long ago and she was livin' in the straigh-up 'hood.
Mama Boot and I became instant friends the day we met. Deon, her grandson and one of my best friends from my college days in Fayetteville, had predicted that this would happen. He knew that we were kindred spirits and he was happy to introduce us. He knew that she and I both loved us some Bill Clinton and we both loved Mexican food, and why didn't I just make the trip with him down to the 'Smith to meet this beloved woman who raised him?
Mama Boot didn't live alone, she informed me. She lived with God. Confined to a wheelchair and afflicted by numerous unheard of ailments and conditions, she endured much pain, discomfort, and loss of ability. Life in this complex was by no means glamorous. The noisy, gossipy neighbors were a welcome presence in contrast to the swindlers and ne'er-do-wells who all too often wind up in these places. This was my judgment, not hers. I saw thugs and drug-dealers; she knew first names and family histories.
The first time we hung out I got lovingly scolded, as only a black woman can do, for not washing my hands, and I got prayed for. Ms. Feisty set me straight in matters of hygiene and spirituality. (She later laughingly confessed that white folks not washing their hands was a stereotype she had that thanks to people like myself she has never been able to kick.)
The prayer, though, wasn't the standard rub-a-dub-dub-thanks-for-the-grub prayer. It was a bless-my-new-friend-James,-Oh-Dear-Lord,-and-bring-him-closer-to-You-because-I-sense-that-he-hungers-for-more-than-just-food kind of prayer. She interceded for me on the spot, calling gifts and provision down from Heaven, things that I didn't even know existed and things that I definitely did not know I needed. She peppered her prayer with in Jesus' Name and by the Blood of Jesus and talked to her Creator as if they were the best of friends.
At this time, I had not yet met nor did I even really believe in the actuality of the Holy Spirit. Intellectually, I did. In my heart, not really. I chalked Mama Boot's prayers up as those of a well-meaning, emotional black woman's. Emotionalism, Pentecostalism, and African-American culture was how I processed this, though she had managed to hit some nerves during her prayer.
We all scrubbed our hands down until they were red-raw and ingested some delicious Mexican take-out from an authentic little hole in the wall joint down the way. We talked politics, current events, education and God. She started many of her sentences with, "Me and God." Anything from, "Me and God watched us some T.D. Jakes this morning. . ." to "Me and God just been sittin' here waiting on our quesadillas." And if anything went well, though much in her daily life did not, she praised God for it. Attitude of gratitude personified.
Mama Boot would say things like, "I know you're saved, and you're a good boy, but Lord-a-Mercy I cain't wait 'til God gets a-holt of you, child." I knew that I was at a crossroads with God, either wanting more of Him or to be done with Him. How, though, did she know this? Because I didn't wash my hands? Had I said something? No, from one with "eyes to see" it was, as she said, all over me.
My first blog post detailed what I refer to as my first Holy Spirit experience. Of course, Mama Boot, was one of the first people that I told about this amazing, life-changing encounter. She reminded me just recently of something I had excitedly said that she still laughs about. I had forgotten it until she reminded me, then I knew it was me. "I thought the Holy Spirit was just for black folks and Pentecostals," I had blurted among the other details of my experience. Since I reasoned that the Holy Spirit (being under His influence) was basically just people getting all hyped-up for God, I had dismissed people's being under the influence of the Holy Spirit as being emotional, charismatic, excitable church folks. Truthfully, I thought they were putting on.
Mama Boot was not putting on and she was not the least bit surprised of my Holy Spirit encounter. She was excited. She got happy. She let out a shout. But she was not surprised. She told me of how she knew that I was anointed and set aside to do great things for God. She said that she knew that I didn't know it and that I couldn't grasp it, but that she had seen it all over me. From my new vantage point of seeing everything spiritually, I knew she was telling me the truth, but when she first met me, I would have no doubt insisted that this was sincere, yet senseless church-talk.
I considered then, but I know now that Mama Boot's prayers were the precursor to my Holy Spirit experience, which has changed the course of my entire life and existence.
God used a woman who had endured a lifetime of mistreatment by people of my race to pray for my well-being and livelihood. God used a woman who had been denied an education to encourage and pray me through mine. God used a woman who cleaned white people's houses for a living to pray for my financial well-being. God used a woman who was riddled with medical diagnoses to pray for mine and my family members' health.
Mama Boot and I became instant friends the day we met. Deon, her grandson and one of my best friends from my college days in Fayetteville, had predicted that this would happen. He knew that we were kindred spirits and he was happy to introduce us. He knew that she and I both loved us some Bill Clinton and we both loved Mexican food, and why didn't I just make the trip with him down to the 'Smith to meet this beloved woman who raised him?
Mama Boot didn't live alone, she informed me. She lived with God. Confined to a wheelchair and afflicted by numerous unheard of ailments and conditions, she endured much pain, discomfort, and loss of ability. Life in this complex was by no means glamorous. The noisy, gossipy neighbors were a welcome presence in contrast to the swindlers and ne'er-do-wells who all too often wind up in these places. This was my judgment, not hers. I saw thugs and drug-dealers; she knew first names and family histories.
The first time we hung out I got lovingly scolded, as only a black woman can do, for not washing my hands, and I got prayed for. Ms. Feisty set me straight in matters of hygiene and spirituality. (She later laughingly confessed that white folks not washing their hands was a stereotype she had that thanks to people like myself she has never been able to kick.)
The prayer, though, wasn't the standard rub-a-dub-dub-thanks-for-the-grub prayer. It was a bless-my-new-friend-James,-Oh-Dear-Lord,-and-bring-him-closer-to-You-because-I-sense-that-he-hungers-for-more-than-just-food kind of prayer. She interceded for me on the spot, calling gifts and provision down from Heaven, things that I didn't even know existed and things that I definitely did not know I needed. She peppered her prayer with in Jesus' Name and by the Blood of Jesus and talked to her Creator as if they were the best of friends.
At this time, I had not yet met nor did I even really believe in the actuality of the Holy Spirit. Intellectually, I did. In my heart, not really. I chalked Mama Boot's prayers up as those of a well-meaning, emotional black woman's. Emotionalism, Pentecostalism, and African-American culture was how I processed this, though she had managed to hit some nerves during her prayer.
We all scrubbed our hands down until they were red-raw and ingested some delicious Mexican take-out from an authentic little hole in the wall joint down the way. We talked politics, current events, education and God. She started many of her sentences with, "Me and God." Anything from, "Me and God watched us some T.D. Jakes this morning. . ." to "Me and God just been sittin' here waiting on our quesadillas." And if anything went well, though much in her daily life did not, she praised God for it. Attitude of gratitude personified.
Mama Boot would say things like, "I know you're saved, and you're a good boy, but Lord-a-Mercy I cain't wait 'til God gets a-holt of you, child." I knew that I was at a crossroads with God, either wanting more of Him or to be done with Him. How, though, did she know this? Because I didn't wash my hands? Had I said something? No, from one with "eyes to see" it was, as she said, all over me.
My first blog post detailed what I refer to as my first Holy Spirit experience. Of course, Mama Boot, was one of the first people that I told about this amazing, life-changing encounter. She reminded me just recently of something I had excitedly said that she still laughs about. I had forgotten it until she reminded me, then I knew it was me. "I thought the Holy Spirit was just for black folks and Pentecostals," I had blurted among the other details of my experience. Since I reasoned that the Holy Spirit (being under His influence) was basically just people getting all hyped-up for God, I had dismissed people's being under the influence of the Holy Spirit as being emotional, charismatic, excitable church folks. Truthfully, I thought they were putting on.
Mama Boot was not putting on and she was not the least bit surprised of my Holy Spirit encounter. She was excited. She got happy. She let out a shout. But she was not surprised. She told me of how she knew that I was anointed and set aside to do great things for God. She said that she knew that I didn't know it and that I couldn't grasp it, but that she had seen it all over me. From my new vantage point of seeing everything spiritually, I knew she was telling me the truth, but when she first met me, I would have no doubt insisted that this was sincere, yet senseless church-talk.
I considered then, but I know now that Mama Boot's prayers were the precursor to my Holy Spirit experience, which has changed the course of my entire life and existence.
God used a woman who had endured a lifetime of mistreatment by people of my race to pray for my well-being and livelihood. God used a woman who had been denied an education to encourage and pray me through mine. God used a woman who cleaned white people's houses for a living to pray for my financial well-being. God used a woman who was riddled with medical diagnoses to pray for mine and my family members' health.
The irony of our differences was immediately apparent, but has continued to speak volumes to me about the integrity of Mama Boot, but especially of who God is and how He operates. He intends for us - His kids, His Body, His Church - to get along despite our perceived differences.
Mama Boot has endured numerous surgeries and personal trials in the six years that I've known her. She has legally been pronounced dead several times, only to be brought back to life. She's had times when she cannot walk, cannot talk, cannot take care of personal matters. There have been times when I've hung up the phone or walked out of her room at the nursing home, that I felt certain would be the last.
Mama Boot is an absolute pleasure to hang out with. She's got no Master's of Divinity degree and she's never taken a theology course in her life, but she's got God - Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. She doesn't talk about paradigms. She doesn't speak Christianese. She doesn't get distracted with denominationalism. She's not a part of Christian sub-culture. She just spends all day every day with God.
Lying flat of her back, she prays for those who are much less sick. Dependent upon the good will of others, she prays for financial success for her friends and family. By all definitions an invalid, she brings joy and sunshine to the techs, aides, nurses, and other residents of the nursing home where she lives. One of our prayers is for God to anoint her handshake, her hugs, her eye-contact, and her presence. God answers those prayers.
Every day that she finds herself still alive is a day spent praying her kids and grandkids, friends and relatives into the arms and Kingdom of God. Lying in a hospital bed, she sees visions that lead her to pray for her family's protection as the end times near. Before surgeries, she's seen angels in her room.
Mama Boot still prays for me on a regular basis and it was a relief to know that while I was on a recent short-term mission trip to Ghana and Uganda that she was praying for me. Missionaries and church folks who are in need of money say things like, If you can't give, just pray. It's a nice gesture, but the money is what is desired. The same was largely true with my attempts at fund-raising. I would think, You ain't gonna have nothin' to pray for if I don't get my white behind across that water. However, I can honestly say that Mama Boot's prayers were worth more to me than if she had been able to pay for the whole trip. Because, you see, she talks to the very God that I went to Africa to serve. They're tight. She knows how to get a word on up there. And if ol' no-shoulders thought he was gonna try something, then I can guar-an-tee (all 3 syllables)that he got a good old-fashioned butt-whoopin' Mama Boot style, gettin' sent back to Hell where he belongs . . and not without a proper tongue-lashing!
Nowadays, it's me who's praying for her. One operation after another. I guess one can only out-live the doctors' you-have-x-number-of-months left until you just start to disbelieve them. It's more than that, though. If God tells her she's gonna live and not die, she don't pay no mind to what the man in the white jacket says because with her, it's "Me and God."
Several years ago, noticing how my prayers had grown from religious-mechanical to spiritual-relational, she laughingly observed, "Boy, you're prayin' like a black woman."
Mama Boot has endured numerous surgeries and personal trials in the six years that I've known her. She has legally been pronounced dead several times, only to be brought back to life. She's had times when she cannot walk, cannot talk, cannot take care of personal matters. There have been times when I've hung up the phone or walked out of her room at the nursing home, that I felt certain would be the last.
Mama Boot is an absolute pleasure to hang out with. She's got no Master's of Divinity degree and she's never taken a theology course in her life, but she's got God - Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. She doesn't talk about paradigms. She doesn't speak Christianese. She doesn't get distracted with denominationalism. She's not a part of Christian sub-culture. She just spends all day every day with God.
Lying flat of her back, she prays for those who are much less sick. Dependent upon the good will of others, she prays for financial success for her friends and family. By all definitions an invalid, she brings joy and sunshine to the techs, aides, nurses, and other residents of the nursing home where she lives. One of our prayers is for God to anoint her handshake, her hugs, her eye-contact, and her presence. God answers those prayers.
Every day that she finds herself still alive is a day spent praying her kids and grandkids, friends and relatives into the arms and Kingdom of God. Lying in a hospital bed, she sees visions that lead her to pray for her family's protection as the end times near. Before surgeries, she's seen angels in her room.
Mama Boot still prays for me on a regular basis and it was a relief to know that while I was on a recent short-term mission trip to Ghana and Uganda that she was praying for me. Missionaries and church folks who are in need of money say things like, If you can't give, just pray. It's a nice gesture, but the money is what is desired. The same was largely true with my attempts at fund-raising. I would think, You ain't gonna have nothin' to pray for if I don't get my white behind across that water. However, I can honestly say that Mama Boot's prayers were worth more to me than if she had been able to pay for the whole trip. Because, you see, she talks to the very God that I went to Africa to serve. They're tight. She knows how to get a word on up there. And if ol' no-shoulders thought he was gonna try something, then I can guar-an-tee (all 3 syllables)that he got a good old-fashioned butt-whoopin' Mama Boot style, gettin' sent back to Hell where he belongs . . and not without a proper tongue-lashing!
Nowadays, it's me who's praying for her. One operation after another. I guess one can only out-live the doctors' you-have-x-number-of-months left until you just start to disbelieve them. It's more than that, though. If God tells her she's gonna live and not die, she don't pay no mind to what the man in the white jacket says because with her, it's "Me and God."
Several years ago, noticing how my prayers had grown from religious-mechanical to spiritual-relational, she laughingly observed, "Boy, you're prayin' like a black woman."
- In 1958, Mama Boot was the first African American to graduate from Van Buren High School. She would have much preferred to stay in her "colored" school, but she wanted to set an example for her younger siblings, to pave the way for them to be able to attend the school of their choice. She was the only African American in her graduating class.
- Mama Boot is known locally in Ft. Smith and Van Buren for having practically raised many of the residents, white and black, including a former Ft. Smith mayor. She worked in many well-to-do white folks' homes and her housework often included a major role in child-rearing.
- Mama Boot was a founder of the Ft. Smith Boy's Club and volunteered hundreds of hours of her time over many years.
- Mama Boot was denied entry into West-Ark College (now UAFS) and still has the numerous rejection slips with the bogus explanations of why she could not attend. Her grandson Deon graduated from there two generations later with a 4.0.
- Mama Boot's son Arnold is an educator and a school administrator who applied tirelessly in Western Arkansas school districts, only for those jobs to go to more "qualified" applicants. He moved to Delaware and has won numerous awards for his service to education, such as the coveted Administrator of the Year state-wide award.
- Mama Boot was mentored by Little Rock Civil Rights Leader, Daisy Gatson Bates, who also mentored the Little Rock Nine. She worked in the Bates' printing press and contributed to their newspaper.
- Mama Boot's children and grandchildren serve in the fields of the armed services, education, nursing, and mental health. Many are musically inclined. Her proudest accomplishment is that all of her children and grandchildren are living for and serving the Lord.
