![]() “You must go. You have to go tomorrow as planned.” Angela’s voice was firm and uncharacteristically commanding. Before she called (it was after 11:00 pm—another anomaly because she was often asleep by 8:00 or 9:00), I was in bed thinking of excuses to get out of the chore. “Tomorrow. After my apartment. Notre-Dame de la Daurade,” she said and hung up the phone. The chore was to take a cab into Toulouse and get some things from her apartment and bring them back to the rehab. Little things. Stuff I was convinced could wait for someone else to bring or do without: three shirts, a book, the journal on her nightstand. Oh, and a 5-piece meal from KFC that I was to sneak into her room when I got back. “Are you ready? Do you know what the tell the driver? Do you remember the directions to the church?” It was the next morning and she was calmer but no less exigent. “I remember. I’m going after breakfast,” I sighed. Angela is one of a handful of women in my life who are part of my Destiny. I know them because as soon as we lock eyes for the first time, a voice inside says, “She’s your friend.” Fate or Destiny just tells me to hold on to that person for life… and I have. Since 1976. In 1976 I knew nothing of the Black Madonna. And at that time, Angela knew nothing of the Black Madonna or the Divine Feminine she embodies. Now, 47 years later, she demanded that I go to Notre-Dame de la Daurade. “Why are you so stuck on me going there?” I grumbled probably because of some unconscious fear of getting lost. Silly of me to give that thought any energy, really silly. “I don’t know…,” her voice trailed. I thought I was called to Toulouse from Philly because Angela, we thought, was leaving us because of the cancer that had chiseled a hole in her left breast. For about a month she emailed disturbing photos of the wound each time the nurse came to her apartment to change the bandages. It wasn’t getting better, just bigger. So, I flew to Toulouse thinking I was going to be with her for the last time. (Or, that my visit would be the miracle cure. Was it ego or faith? It didn’t matter as long as it worked.) The Black Madonna is black because she expresses the Divine Feminine connection to the Blessed Virgin Mary. In Europe, she’s found in churches and cathedrals in little towns and large cities like Toulouse, France. Her face is black. Her hands are black. And the baby Jesus she holds or sits on her lap is black – on purpose. The tales that her coloring is the result of candle soot are not to be believed. What is to be believed is that I was called to her. And, for a very good reason. Angela was right: I had to go there. Why? I’ll tell you in Part Two… Regina Robinson is an adult and K-6 educator and the president of RM Robinson Solutions LLC (RMRS). The company provides workplace, elementary, and early childhood education solutions. She holds a master’s degree in Media Ecology from New York University and lives in a historical house in the Germantown section of Philadelphia with her husband, John, and her dog/son, Iggie
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