“Jimmy, when we meet my sister for dinner tonight, she wants to see if you can fix her clock.”
That seemed like an unusual request since I know absolutely nothing about clocks.
“It is an heirloom she inherited. It was a source of special pride for Mom and Pam accidentally knocked if off the wall and broke the case. She was wondering if you could fix it.”
Now I knew how why I had entered the story. I love woodworking and MacGyver-ing unique solutions. A cracked clock case was right up my alley.
When we got to the restaurant, Pam was already inside so my assessment had to wait until after we finished eating. Eventually, we were done and exited into the parking lot. She lifted the tailgate of her Jeep to reveal a large box. As she opened the box, a shock ran through me. It wasn’t broken, it was shattered. Some pieces were loosely attached while others seemed to have broken free completely.
“Think you can fix it?” she said.
I replied, “I can give it a shot.” and we loaded it into my car.
Back home, I set up a folding table and carefully reviewed the situation. The clock was an antique with no real markings to give an accurate estimate of its age. The damage from the drop was obvious, but it didn’t end there. The veneer had bubbled, cracked, and fallen off in places. Decorative metal accents were corroded. Wood joints that had been previously repaired now allowed light to pass through them. Some pieces were broken and missing. Countless nails had been haphazardly inserted in an effort to give some structure to the backboard that held the case together.
“Oh, well” I thought to myself. “If it is important to Pam, it is worth an effort.”
For the next several weeks, I spent an hour or so each night on my new hobby. Each assembly needed to be fully broken down into its components, requiring countless corroded nails and screws to be removed. Each glue joint was carefully broken apart and sanded smooth. Once the disassembly was finished, I began repairing some boards and fabricating others. Sheets of used sandpaper piled up in the bucket at my feet and the solvent-smell of wood putty filled the air. Various clamps, glue bottles, and hand tools overflowed the table set aside for my task.
It was slow work and gave me a lot of time to think. It was ironic that I was going to such efforts for a clock that belonged to my mother-in-law. She passed away about ten years ago, but we never got along for the twenty years before that. She always seemed to harbor resentment towards me. I endured years of snarky comments and harsh criticisms. This woman who was embraced by her neighbors and people from church never gave me a moment’s rest.
After she was gone, I was able to set my offenses aside and try to figure out why she never seemed to like me very much.
Jewel’s dad died when she was a teenager. It was traumatic for her in many ways besides the obvious loss of a parent. She was the second youngest of eight siblings in Appalachian Tennessee. Her dad was a coal miner who had succumbed to Black Lung. Her mom did the best she could to clothe and shelter herself and the army of hungry children. They were viewed as dirt poor even in a poverty-stricken community.
Jewel promised herself that she wouldn’t live that way forever. She was still young when she married Bob. He had been raised in a middle-class family that was a dream to her. After serving in the Air Force, he settled into a stable career carrying the mail for the USPS and she held a number of low-level management positions at Kmart, a doctor’s office, and the like.
She carefully selected every article of clothing and decoration for her house so that no one would remember the poor girl who couldn’t afford good shoes. She demanded that her girls learn to speak properly and get good grades so they would never have to live like she had. In her heart though, a part of her was always afraid people wouldn’t think she was good enough.
One day, her baby girl showed up with a new boyfriend. This twenty-one-year-old came from a nicer background, was graduating in engineering, and headed for graduate school. When he started work, life seemed to reward him generously, and he took it for granted that success would greet him at every door.
I don’t think Jewel was ever able to forgive me for taking so easily a lifestyle that she had fought hard to achieve. I was never astute enough to understand how big a deal it was for her. My ignorance came across as a lack of compassion, and we were at odds for twenty years.
I wish I could thank her for everything she did for Kim. I wish I could compliment her for achieving a level of success that surpassed almost everyone she grew up with. I wish I could have understood and not spent so much time frustrated with her and avoiding time together.
As I applied the last coat of polyurethane and tightened the final screw, I hoped that she was able to see the clock she had been so proud of. I’m not much of a judge in appraising value and have no idea if her clock was originally valuable or even priceless when it had shattered on the floor. Maybe it was or wasn’t, but it was a treasure to her.
My chances on this earth are gone to ask her to forgive my insensitivity. I don’t know enough about how the hereafter works to know if she can see me now or not. It doesn’t really matter. I know that she has forgiven me.
For now, the labor I pour out is a matter of respect, an effort to honor a woman who fought ferociously and loved her family the best she could. I hope that Pam is able to see the very best part of her mom in it and that one day it will provide a clue to Erin as she tries to understand the young woman her Mamaw had once been.
In the kingdom of God, a clock is never just a clock. It is a reflection of the memories and love of the people who enjoyed it.
The video of George Floyd’s death by Minneapolis policemen is horrific. It documented the law officers we have entrusted with our justice as they kill a black man with the casual regard of an everyday arrest. All other news stories have stopped while our country’s collective conscience is riveted on the value of one man’s life.
Much of the black community can recite from memory a litany of names of their brothers and sisters who share similar stories. They have tried to explain that it goes far beyond policemen and that systemic racism is so common that we no longer notice it.
I’m trying to understand, but it’s hard. For days, I have contemplated the different ways that people of color are targeted unfairly. The harsh reality is that I have no idea what it is like to be a black man, and I am unqualified to speak about it.
On the other hand, I know a lot about White Privilege.
Several years ago, I got a hundred dollars out of my bank’s ATM. A couple of the twenties looked funny and I suspected they may be counterfeit. I was afraid to take the bills into the bank without proof that they came from their ATM. I was worried they would take my forty dollars. I mixed them in with some other bills on my next trip to the grocery. Even if someone noticed, I knew nothing would happen to me. In the worst case, I would have to answer a few questions about where the bills came from.
That is White Privilege. For the same crime, George Floyd was pulled from his car, handcuffed, and made to sit on a city sidewalk. That is before it got real bad.
Last year, my sister and her family came to visit and we loaded everybody up and took them to Buc-ee’s to see America’s cleanest restrooms. Erin and Josh bought a soda and made an impulse buy of a t-shirt at the register. As eco-minded citizens, they declined the unnecessary receipt and bag. When they turned around and noticed that everyone else was still shopping, they walked back into the store.
When it came time to leave, they realized that they had no proof of purchase for their stuff. I told them not to worry about it. They handed everything to me and I held it above my head while I walked past the cashiers on my way out of the building. I knew that no one would accuse me of stealing a drink and a t-shirt. I was right. Every cashier glanced at me then immediately returned to their tasks.
I was trying to make a point to the kids that people do not assume we are guilty, even when circumstances are questionable.
That is White Privilege.Lawrence Crosby didn’t get the same presumption of innocence when he was arrested for breaking into his own car.
I have served at countless homes in our community, much of it basic home repair or lawn maintenance. To assess the job, I typically show up at odd hours wearing a ball cap, t-shirt, blue jeans, and work boots. I walk freely through the yards and veer into their neighbors’ yards as necessary. Not one single time ever have I worried about an angry homeowner confronting me.
I know that people will give me the benefit of the doubt, even while I walk across their property with nothing to identify me. At most, they will open the door and curiously ask me what I am doing.
That is White Privilege. Neither Christian Cooper nor Drew Lanham received it when they were threatened while birdwatching in public.
For years, I have had a concealed carry license that authorizes me to legally carry a firearm in most situations. If a policeman pulls over my car and runs my license plate, he is automatically notified that there may be a firearm in my car. I know to be respectful and to keep my hands in plain view. As long as I act reasonably, I know that there is no risk.
Friends of mine have repeatedly told stories of policemen issuing them warnings instead of citations when they see their concealed carry license. The underlying message is that they appreciate the help of ensuring a safe community. Nobody assumes that I am dangerous or represent a threat to them.
That is White Privilege. If Willie McCoy had received the same consideration, he wouldn’t have been shot 25 times while he slept in his car at Taco Bell.
I have been an avid runner for more than twenty years. Before I head out the door, Kim always wants to know the route I plan to take. If I don’t come home as expected, she wants to know how to trace my path and help me.
I usually forget to tell her. I know that if something goes wrong that the next person who sees me will come to my aid.
That is White Privilege. I wish Ahmaud Arbery got the same, but he was shot in the street during his daily jog
Maybe you are familiar with each of the names above. If you aren’t, you should click on each one to read their story. If you are like me, your first response will be to assume that there is a logical explanation and defend the institution. When I slow down and seek to understand, I know that these situations weren’t fair. It is an evil that has pervaded our society since Satan first divided us from God then got Adam and Eve to turn on each other.
While I casually go about my life, other people are not afforded that luxury. Freedom is reserved as a privilege for a few.
Ironically, my point isn’t that White Privilege is bad. Quite the contrary, I think it is a good thing. The problem is that we call it White Privilege instead of The Human Condition. Every person should receive the same favor that I do.
The death, pain, and despair that are consuming our nation are deeply troubling. A death that didn’t need to happen reminds me of John 11, when Lazarus’ family cried out to Jesus because he was sick to the point of death. Jesus came to them and was “deeply moved in spirit and troubled” (John 11:33). He didn’t lecture anybody, choose sides, or share his opinion. Jesus wept. He cried for each broken heart and despondent soul. He cried for the people who were angry and had lost hope while the answer to all their pain was right in front of them.
Then, his perfect love restored life. That same power lives inside every believer.
Some of the names above are exemplary citizens. Some are criminals. Jesus didn’t care. He died for all of us while he prayed forgiveness for the people killing him. Much like the angel in my post “Which side are you on?“, he refused to get swept up in the arguments. He just loved everyone.
I don’t like to write about the evil that exists in our world. I avoid conjuring images of darkness. Sometimes those things are necessary to make us aware of the difficulty that some people face for no other reason than God’s choice to shade their skin one hue or another. I am thankful that God has called me to share other thoughts.
I hope that people of privilege appreciate the gifts they receive every day in all of the million, subtle ways. Recognition alone is not enough. We are called to use what we have been given to make a difference. When we sit idly by, we are part of the problem.
How can I start? I can join the conversation.
Sometimes my bubble is too safe. It shields me from others’ reality and boxes out opportunities for some. It is my responsibility to see that and take action. The light and love of Christ are not limited. There is more than enough for us all, and it grows as we give it away. Deeper connection will prevail where policy does not.
If your world is different than mine, and you don’t receive the same considerations that I do, then I am sorry. I pray that you expect all of it and that you never stop demanding it. I hope that marches and protests continue, giving you a chance to tell your story. We need to hear from you and the stories of each name above to be reminded of how much work remains to be done.
May your faith be strengthened that you do not stand alone and your patience be deep with those who don’t understand. May your platform change hearts and how we interact with each other.
You are right. Black lives matter.
The quote in the featured image was taken from Reverend John C. Dorhauer, who was speaking on behalf of two black men who were handcuffed and arrested by policemen who had been called by a Starbuck’s manager as they waited at a table for a business associate. To see that story, go to:
