Discussing Charlottesville

Imagine with me, if you will, a woman with rich brown skin and tight black curls, aged and graying, narrating the story of her people to you. We'll lean in to hear her recollections of the time after the war: 

Union soldiers occupied southern towns to keep the peace but didn't do much to protect black people from new groups of mean white, like the Ku Klux Klan, who threatened us all year long. To stop black folks from voting, Klansmen marched in front of their homes wearing white sheets over their heads, shooting out the windows and burning homes to the ground, or worse, dragging black folks out of their homes to lynch them.  The law didn't do a thing to stop it.  Shoot, some of the men wearing the sheets were lawmen. It was their way of "keeping us in our place", wherever that was supposed to be.  They couldn't stand to see us trying to be equal to whites.  They were convinced that they were somehow superior to black people.  My grandmother used to call it "the Sickness."  Whatever it was, it was just plain mean, honey.  Lord knows how those folks could fix it in their minds to do the things they did to us back then.  It's a miracle we made it through.

-from Kadir Nelson's Heart and Soul: The Story of America and African Americans

~

Mark, holding our Adelia for the very first time

Charlottesville. 
White Supremacy.
KKK.
Racism.

These were the topics of our dinnertime conversation last night.  It's a difficult and emotional
thing to look across the table at my brown-skinned children and have these conversations.

We spoke of the evil that is prevalent and active, of "the Sickness"- as Kadir Nelson's book puts it.  We talked about the history of the black people, of Martin Luther King, Jr. and peaceful protests. 
We talked about cycles of poverty. 
Of fear. 
We spoke of how God is the ultimate Victor, not Satan nor evil or darkness, not in the end. 
We spoke of how it might feel for a black person in the wake of this evil and others: One of our kids: "They must think, 'Will this ever change?  Will this ever get any better?  When will this be done?'"  We spoke of skin color and the beauty of it. 
We tried to answer their questions: "Why would a white person kill a white person if their hatred is toward black people?"  "Is it only white people who are racist?" 
We spoke of how much we oppose this.  Vehemently.  That it angers and saddens us.  We shed tears.  We spoke of standing for what is right in the midst of people who won't.
We spoke of the courage and the strength of black men and women who have borne the weight of this for years and are still bearing it.  And of the self-control so many possess in the face of hatred and violence.

And we prayed together.

Lord, help us to know what else we can do.

Heavy-hearted

There is so much on my heart these past several days that I hesitate to write or say anything at all, and yet I do not want to be silent, either.

First and foremost, I am grieving the loss of the lives of Alton Sterling and Philando Castile, as well as the lives of the five officers killed in Dallas: Officer Lorne Ahrens, Officer Michael Smith, Officer Michael Krol, Officer Patrick Zamarripa, Officer Brent Thompson.

I have been praying for the families and the friends of these men, that God would bring them the comfort only He can give. 

I am praying particularly for our brothers and sisters in the Dallas area this week, black and white, to move toward one another in love.  I am praying for reconciliation, rather than retaliation. 

I am praying that God's Spirit would empower people to love, where there might otherwise be hatred, anger, or fear.  I am thankful that God is the Light of this dark, broken, and hurting world.  And I am praying for God's people, as His image-bearers, to be light wherever they are, in whatever spheres they are in.  May the fact that Christ is in us compel us to a place of unity and of compassion, no matter our race or ethnicity.

I pray that I will be one who reaches out to those who are not like myself, and especially those who may feel devalued.

I am praying for the protection of black boys and black men.  I am praying for black mothers who are fearing for the futures and the very lives of their boys.  I am praying for white mothers who are fearing for the futures and the very lives of their black boys.

I am also praying for the protection of police officers.

I am praying against the fear that is so pervasive in our society.  I am praying for compassion for us all.  I am praying that we would walk in the ways of Jesus; that we would be humble people and that we might glorify God through our words, our actions, and our thoughts.

This week Mark and I have talked a lot about these things.  We have also talked with our older kids, and these conversations sometimes filter down to our younger girls.  There was a moment this week when we were all eating together at the table and we were talking generally about what was going on in our nation.  Adelia, my beautiful brown-skinned daughter, happened to tune in and ask what we were talking about, and one of her siblings said, "Police officers killed some black people."

I don't know how her eight-year-old heart and mind processes such a statement. 

Or last year, while playing with a group of children at church, another little girl declared, "She can't play this game.  I don't like people with black skin."

I don't know how her heart and mind processes such a declaration.

I know how mine does.  My heart aches, and the tears come.  I want to protect my little girl.  I want her to know that she is made in the very image of God.  I don't ever want her to feel self-conscious because of the color of her skin.  I look at her and I see the beauty with which God made her: tightly coiled curls pulled into twists, her beautiful skin tanning even browner after these days of warm sunshine, her wide smile, her infectious laughter, her playfulness and her strong will.

Never am I more aware of the beautiful brown of her skin, or the whiteness of my own skin, than when this issue comes up.  Because suddenly I look at the issue of race through her eyes.

She asked why, there at the table surrounded by her white family who loves her.  Why indeed?

What can I say to her in these moments, when it seems as if my words will carry such weight and ought to be so significant and yet I feel so inexperienced to speak to this at all?

What I say to her is this: God created you, and He delights over you.  And then we talk about how we are living in a broken world, and evil abounds, and that people act out of fear or hatred and that this is why we all desperately need Jesus.

Andra Day has a powerful song called Rise Up, and here is a part of it:
And I'll rise up
I'll rise like the day
I'll rise up
I'll rise unafraid
I'll rise up
And I'll do it a thousand times again
And I'll rise up
High like the waves
I'll rise up
In spite of the ache
I'll rise up
And I'll do it a thousand times again

Every time I hear that song I think of the many times the black community has had to rise up in the face of oppression and violence, of how they have had to rise up again and go out and live amongst those with prejudices against them.  I have nothing but respect for these courageous men and women, and we have so much to learn from them.

May God give us His heart, His eyes, and His love.  And may we all look to the Day where we will all stand before the throne of God as a great multitude, from every nation, tribe, people and language, in worship of the One who is worthy.