He was the tallest man I’d ever seen – even taller than my Grandpa. His voice was deep, kind, and mesmerizing. I couldn’t stop staring. He came to our home that doubled as an office for my mom, a resident manager of the apartment complex she managed. I don’t remember why he was there, I just remember his undeniable presence. Despite my mom’s desperate efforts to shoo me to my room to play so they could discuss business, I wouldn’t budge. I couldn’t. It didn’t take long for him to ask my name and if I would like to sit on his lap while he and Mom talked. In a blink I climbed up on his lap and settled against his broad chest feeling so safe, so comfortable, so at home. I took his big hand in my little one and marveled at the beauty of his dark skin. I started rubbing his hand over and over until my mom finally stopped her own conversation and asked what on earth I was doing. “Mommy, it won’t come off.” After a split second of dead silence, his booming laughter filled the entire apartment. My mortified mother grabbed me and shooed me off to my room with a swat on the bottom. My last image of this gentle giant was of him wiping the tears of laughter from his face with his hanky, all the while assuring my mom that he wasn’t offended in the least. My poor mother!
“I wish we could be twins.” My best friend Steffy and I were walking hand-in-hand along the sidewalk that bordered the apartment complex we lived in. It was the early 70’s and we were inseparable. I wanted her braids and pierced ears with beautiful pearl earrings. She pined for my long, golden locks. And while we wanted to be twins, we also yearned for the beauty that the other possessed. Not to take it away from the other, but to have it with one another. We saw the beauty in one another even when we overlooked the beauty we each carried ourselves.
I grew up in the “Wild West” of Colorado Springs. I never witnessed the horrors of racism, certainly not to the degree of the American South at that time. However, I was always aware of the differences in the people in our neighborhood. The uniqueness of the Black, Indian, Hispanic, and Asian families that I lived among intrigued me. The beautiful tapestries that hung in their living rooms, the incredible aromas of family recipes floating from their kitchens, and the dialect spoken in their homes were intoxicating. And, for the most part, people were accepted and welcomed for who they were, myself included. It wasn’t until Junior High School that I experienced bullying based on the color of my own skin. I lived in a neighborhood where I was the minority. Being white was enough for girls to call me horrible names, throw rocks at me while walking to the store, or sneak firecrackers onto my coat collar and then light them while I was wearing it. Please, understand that I am not equating bullying with the horrors of racism but it was my first glimpse at treating people differently because of their skin color and it left a mark on me.
For those of us living in polite neighborhoods where racism isn’t as obvious, last week was a slap in the face to wake up. We’ve been thrust into the difficult, necessary discussions of the reality of our nation. Watching men – not actors – die horrible deaths on our televisions is terrifying. How could this happen in today’s world? In our country? I am weary of death, drama, and the intensity of life that seems to surround us even more these days. My heart is broken. My own family – my own flesh and blood – could be seen as representatives of the polar opposites of today’s civil unrest. My Black cousins who continue to be on guard from unsolicited bias and unfair treatment. My White brother who risks his own life each day in order to protect his community from those who would seek to destroy it. The Black man. The White cop. They are both my family. They are both in the line of fire, quite literally.
As Administrative Assistants in ministry, we are hearing similar stories from our church family. They are scared. They are angry. They feel helpless. They feel voiceless. And when people are desperate, they say and do things that surprise even themselves. Often doing it right in front of us; the people who most want to help them. How do we respond?
We listen. And listen more. We share our own story and dry one another’s tears. We apologize. Not necessarily because we personally perpetrated such cruelty but because we are so very grieved over what our brothers and sisters have endured. We speak. We stand up and identify wrong as wrong, and right as right. We speak with love and mercy and humility, knowing that we might still have our own biases and mess it up. But speaking in love – keeping the other person’s best central to our words – softens the unintended blow and opens the door for godly correction to our own hearts. We pray. Because Jesus is the only One who could ever heal these wounds, these thoughts, these beliefs. Because all of us are unaware, to some degree, of our own sin and need the love of Jesus to illuminate it and invite us into the healing process. Because this is a fallen world that we have been called to. Because we can’t do this without Him.
A new command I give you: Love one another.
As I have loved you, so you must love one another.
John 13:34
It is so simple. It is so profound. Love one another. Despite what we see or don’t see. Love one another. Regardless of how we are treated. Love one another. He has given us His love so we must give it away to those around us. His love is the only thing that can drive out the evil we face and we have the privilege of delivering it to those who least expect it to be offered. We get to remind people how loved they are. We get to invite people into relationship with their loving Father. We get to wash their feet. We get to offer them a cool cup of water. We get to celebrate their differences. We get to spotlight their unique gifts. We get to share the load with them. We get to remind them…
You are adored.
You Are Adored 