I was in the front yard of the Salvation Army in Lewisville talking to Steve Thomas when my phone buzzed. We were excitedly making preparations to construct a Prayer Garden on Main Street and I had no intention of interrupting our discussion. I glanced at the screen to see who I would need to call back.
The name on the screen made me stop cold.
Polly Champion had been in declining health for weeks. In the first week of June, I was at her house when she had to go to the Emergency Room. Instead of the minor diagnosis that she had hoped for, she learned that her cancer had returned with a vengeance. The ensuing surgery left her in agonizing pain. The family had hoped for the best but had to call in hospice last week to manage her pain. As part of that treatment, they discontinued her daily dialysis. Her body was winding down.
If Polly’s daughter, LaSonya, was calling me, there was only one reason. I asked Steve’s forgiveness and stepped away to answer her call. She gave me the news that I dreaded was coming. Polly had passed away earlier that morning.
I muddled through the rest of my conversation with Steve, but the excitement was gone. I told myself that I knew it was coming. Polly was eighty years old and in poor health. I tried not to think about it, pushing down any other thoughts that surfaced and trying to stay distracted.
The next afternoon Polly’s other daughter, Lisa, called me. Her call showed up as “unidentified” so I let it go to voice mail while I continued my call on the other line. A couple of hours later I saw the notification and played back the message. Her recorded voice told me that she had called to make sure Kim and I had heard the news, “because you guys knew how mom loved you and she would really get onto us if we didn’t call you. You guys stay blessed and we love you because you are family.”
The torrent of emotions couldn’t be suppressed this time. It is an amazing honor to be called family by the Champions and I began to mourn Polly’s passing.
I don’t mourn for Polly. She would have never allowed that. She had been anxious to be called home to Jesus and receive her reward. I mourn for me because I miss her.
I met Polly in November, 2016. She lived alone in a small home that was built in the 1960s. It needed a series of basic repairs that I worked with the First Fruits team for two weekends to complete.
Following the same pattern as countless other workdays, I met with Polly before the workdays to ensure that I understood the tasks and her expectations. Afterward, I followed up with her to make sure things had been done properly and address any little things she still needed help with.
Little by little and visit by visit, our relationship moved past the chores and became an unlikely friendship.
I use the word unlikely because Polly and I don’t seem to have much in common, at least the way most people view life. I am still married, thirty years younger, and very active. She is retired, a lifetime local, and the matriarch of a sprawling, four-generational family. Our homes are eight miles away, but our communities seem worlds apart. Flower Mound is an upscale town full of new construction, while Old Town Lewisville is more down-home and diverse.
We have each grown where God planted us and frequently laughed at our differences. Friendships aren’t built on differences though. They grow out of common bonds.
Polly’s previous cancer attacks had exaggerated the unavoidable effect of time on her body. On each visit, we would take time to pray together, thanking God for his blessings and asking him to have sympathy for our suffering. Usually, I would lead the prayer. Polly is much livelier than me when we pray. She cries out to Jesus right in the middle of somebody’s sentence! Folks don’t do that where I come from, but she was always genuine and I think Jesus liked it. We enjoyed sharing time with our Lord together.
Sometimes she would call me while I was at the office. I always tried to answer. She would tell me if she was feeling sick and ask for my help because I was one of her prayer warriors. I had never seen myself that way, but she did. Polly looked past my present to see my potential the same way God does, and I loved her for that.
Polly was poor as most people viewed it. What I saw was a lady who had what she needed, provided by God at just the right time. She never seemed to have money in the bank but her bills seemed to get paid. Her refrigerator didn’t have a lot in it but she was never hungry. When her home required larger repairs, a local charity, Hearts for Homes, stepped in. God’s faithfulness was on display in her life.
For a long time, Polly thought that I worked for Hearts for Homes. She would call me to come over for all kinds of reasons, both big and little. Maybe it would be to fix a remote control that didn’t work. Other times she would tell me that she really hoped for new furniture for her living room. Whatever she asked for, I did my best to honor her request. I bet two years passed before she figured out that I just did those things because I liked her.
For the first time, I offered a “blank check” to someone who wasn’t my family by blood or in-law. Since Polly was clearly under the protection of the same God who provided all my blessings, it seemed proper to use what I had to meet any of her needs. She could ask me for anything and if it was within my power, she could have it immediately. She frequently exercised that right but never abused the privilege.
One time she called me to see if I had a new bulb for her bedroom TV because her screen wouldn’t light up anymore. Polly was prone to blinding headaches that could leave her confined to bed. On those days, her TV and old episodes of The Rifleman were her companions, so I considered it an important request.
I said, “Yes ma’am, I do have a light bulb for your TV and I’ll bring it over.” After hanging up, I asked Kim to buy a second-hand TV. When I carried it in, Polly asked why I had a whole TV when all she needed was a bulb. I told her “That’s how they sell TV bulbs now.”
After that, she used to say that if she ever needed something done right now, she could count on me.
Occasionally, I stopped by her house just because I needed to talk. Polly had wisdom and a manner about her that was refreshing. Although an army of family, friends, and neighbors seemed to wade through her living room, I never felt like an intruder. We would typically chat for an hour or two, but she would share as much time with me as I needed. I knew I could count on her.
Some of my best friends seem like unlikely ones. Our lives may not match, but they are complementary. We help each other to see the full palette of colors that our Father paints with. Some friends can understand exactly what I’m going through, while others help me to see life in a new way.
Polly always seemed to send me home with a new perspective.
It seems like I’ve lost a lot of people lately. Each of them was dear to my heart. Dealing with their loss has been like the pains of a phantom limb. In my mind they are still a part of me, but when I reach for them they are gone.
The wounds don’t heal quickly and a raw nerve gets bumped every so often. Part of me wants to hold onto my pain because it is all I have left of them. Another part of me wants to wrap thick bandages around every hurt place so I don’t feel anything. All of me hopes that my heart stays soft toward others even though suffering is inevitable.
May God provide comfort when the people I love seem too far away. May he listen to my news when the people I would normally run to can no longer hear my voice. May his presence be tangible on days when I need a friend.
Congratulations, Polly. You raised your family well. You were a vibrant part of your church and community. Your love ran deep and wide. You walked with your Lord through all of your days. All of these things are now yours for eternity, less all the sorrow and pain. You can finally stand face to face with the Savior whose Spirit has guided your life.
Until we meet again, I will do my best to preserve the unlikely friendships in my life, embracing our differences as part of God’s complete plan. At the end of my days when God calls me home, I will search the faces of all those who gather to greet me. I know that you will be there with your giant smile and an embrace that will let me know I am home at last.
On my trip to Tennessee a couple of months ago, Dad gave me Mom’s journalings. They aren’t a proper journal. She was wildly inconsistent in capturing her thoughts and only began the attempt at the age of fifty-seven. They are a jumbled assortment of stapled pieces of notebook paper, hotel notepads, sheets torn from a spiral notebook, and even a single entry that was carefully typed.
Mostly, she captured the events of the day or notes from a sermon. There are only occasional times that she opened up and shared what was on her heart. It is those glimpses into her soul that bring her alive again if only for a moment. Two of those entries are letters she wrote in 2010 and 2013 to her maternal grandfather.
The letters are the only time she used that format and are very similar to each other. She provided no insight into her motivation for writing them. The first letter is below but has snippets that I borrowed from her later note. I’m sure she would forgive me for the edits. If anyone wants to see the original, handwritten versions, a link is provided at the bottom.
Here is the letter, written by a sixty-seven year old grandmother to her grandfather, who had passed away forty-eight years earlier.
Dear Papa,
It’s been so long since we talked. But in my mind, it seems only a short time. I will always remain in my memory that child of 7, 8, or 9 sitting beside you on the pew alongside the deacons at Old Saline Baptist Church, a church with a 100-year old history probably even then.
You helped take offering and took part in the service but always came back to sit beside that insecure child who looked up to you so.
I can hear you now singing “The Old Rugged Cross” or “I Won’t Have to Cross Jordan Alone” and for those moments I was secure, sitting beside this man bigger than life, who loved me enough to bring me to church with him and let me sit beside him with all the other deacons, would keep his hand on my shoulder as the service concluded and I felt like somebody. I can’t remember the sermons but I’ll never forget being present with you in worship.
I’ll always be thankful to you and Mama as well that you raised my mother in that little church, in those traditions so that even when you no longer walked this earth with us or sat under the sweet-gum tree your daughter, my mother, carried on the traditions and love for our Lord. I sat beside her for the next 12-14 years before I married with that same feeling of love and security.
How many lives you formed through generations with your gentle, sweet spirit, humor that resonates with me today, love that spoke so loudly in your care for Mama who could not share with you for those last years of your life.
Thank you Papa for the heritage you left, the example you lived for us to emulate. I pray it won’t die in my watch because I fail to pass it along to our grandchildren.
I regret that our grandchildren won’t have the same memories somehow. Times have changed and though many things are better those relationships are a real loss. The greatest consolation is that I’ll cross Jordan sometime in the not so distant future. I can’t wait to hear you sing The Old Rugged Cross again one day. I’ll recognize your voice before I see your face.
Love you, Papa, Jan
After reading this letter, I set it down and imagined my mom as a little girl. I was sad that she was insecure and didn’t always feel like she was “somebody”. I hoped that I made her feel the same way that Papa did, but worried that I abandoned her to insecurity while I focused on myself. God spoke to me in that moment and told me that it was OK. This letter wasn’t my mom’s story, it was Papa’s.
Papa died six years before I was born. Mom never shared a lot of details about her growing up years, so he has faded into obscurity in the four generations that followed him.
His name was Melvin Dison. If you google his name, you can find a picture of him as a young man, learn that he lived from 1890 to 1962, and that his wife’s name was Myrtle. That’s not a lot. Solomon lamented as much thousands of years ago.
Melvin came to understand his place in history though. In the eyes of a little girl, he reflected the heart of The Father. He accepted responsibility in his church family. He sat on the front row and worshiped passionately. But most importantly, he embraced a small child to make sure that she knew that she was loved.
God is our Papa, and he makes us feel the same way.
The fortunes of billionaires like Bill Gates, Jeff Bezos, and Elon Musk will disappear after a handful of generations. Melvin’s riches however are still growing. His smile still radiates in my memories of my mother, or when I see my aunts Kay and Pam. His embrace lives on every time that Preston hugs his granddaughter Emery. His voice speaks through me when I worship.
Melvin understood enduring greatness that should guide us today. When we accept Jesus, His spirit comes alive inside us. We walk this earth as an embodiment of who He is. Our testimony invites others and God’s love spreads across space and time. Almost sixty years after he died, Melvin reminds me of the power to change lives that is in me.
Each of us may only be a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes. But never believe that our time is without impact. It shines in the eyes of a little girl who became a grandmother herself and generously poured out the same love she received. It guides me to do the same.
Thank you, Melvin.
The original letters are captured in pictures available through the link below. If you have memories of Melvin, please share them in the Comments.
It has been almost twenty years since September 11, 2001. Everybody refers to that day simply as 9/11, but it wasn’t always like that. That fated day started like any other, normal, autumn day.
I was leaving my plant’s daily production meeting when our HR Manager pulled me aside. He told me that two airplanes had flown into the towers on the World Trade Center in New York, destroying them. He didn’t know if it was an accident or if we were under attack.
All air flights were immediately cancelled. Travelers were stranded across the country. The same HR Manager who had just seen the towers fall was designated to account for every one of our plant’s employees. If they were travelling, were they OK? How could we get them home?
The men who crashed four airplanes into the heart of our society had been in our country for almost two years. We had no idea how many more there were or what plans they had. In those early days, I had no idea if I should lock my young family in the house or resume our normal activities. I lay in bed at night wondering if this had been an isolated attack or if it was only the beginning.
The term “terror” was introduced to the masses.
Our nation’s policymakers kicked into top gear, making immediate changes. The Department of Homeland Security was born. Travel became confusing and inconvenient. Trash cans emerged at the security checkpoints, filled with confiscated fingernail clippers. My deodorant and toothpaste suddenly posed a security risk. Racial profiling became illegal even when the demographic of terrorists seemed specific. Three hour waits to enter the airport became normal. Luggage was screened at the designated areas, then rechecked before you boarded the plane.
The Patriot Act was swiftly passed in the largest single expansion of government oversight in history. To privacy advocates, it is still one of the most Orwellian policies ever introduced.
We were living through changes that would impact future generations, even if we didn’t realize it. Although the legal and procedural changes were enormous, there was an even more important battle raging.
Everyone was shocked by the attacks. Nobody knew what more would come. We didn’t understand people who sacrificed their lives to kill innocent people. All that we knew about the “bad guys” was that they were Muslim and middle-eastern. We had to decide how we viewed the generally peaceful Muslim inhabitants of our country. We had to face the fear we felt when we saw a group of men that appeared to be of middle-eastern descent.
Whether we realized it or not, our hearts were the primary battleground. Would we fiercely protect ourselves or reach out in love to our neighbors? Most of us started with the former and had to decide if we would pursue the latter.
We adapted and survived, but it will never be September 10th again.
Two decades later, we are facing another enemy that we do not understand. It also travels among us, difficult to identify in a crowd. Once again the responses seem disjointed and bizarre while we want things “to get back to normal”.
Our elected officials are tasked with deciding what freedoms to limit in the name of our defense. What businesses get to open? Who gets to work? Will schools reopen for the fall? Should masks be required? How many people can gather together? The implications of those decisions are enormous.
We are living through another season of change that will affect generations to come. The echoes of the past are a warning that our hearts, not our laws, will determine who we are as a society. We have to choose if we will defend at all costs or reach out in love.
The danger is slow to find, but judgment comes quickly. Heads covered by turbans are now faces uncovered by masks. We watch people suspiciously as they yawn, sneeze, or cough. The threats are real. How do we resume our lives?
We have had four months to mourn our situation, but it will never be 2019 again. We need to separate what we can change from what we cannot. The sooner we adapt, the sooner we will thrive in this season.
My church was scheduled to resume services this Sunday. Everyone eagerly awaited their chance to shake the greeter’s hand and hug the friends they haven’t seen in too long. We were ready to lift up our voices in praise together. However, as case counts grew, our hopes shrank until the lead pastor finally announced that we will have to wait for at least three more months before traditional services return.
His two-part message also announced the introduction of Circles. They are on-site gatherings at our church campuses with tables holding up to five people each. There are lots of restrictions, but also the first glimpse of resuming our lives. We are beginning to find our way in 2020.
I don’t know how my church family is receiving these changes, but I am as proud as I’ve ever been. In this small step, we have demonstrated that we are bigger than the threat that faces us. Although the virus may mutate, we will evolve faster. Faith, hope, and love are beginning to conquer the fear and uncertainty that has strangled our country.
We will never again wake up in yesterday. We can’t sit back and wait for things to return to a normal that isn’t coming.
Creativity, adaptability, and commitment to change must mark our next season. Maybe Circles are the way of the future and maybe they launch imperfectly. It doesn’t matter. We are beginning to lay the bricks that build our future.
Twenty years from now, we will reflect on the ways COVID changed our country. In retrospect, some of our decisions will seem as naive as the trash cans full of confiscated fingernail clippers. Then as now, we won’t remember each choice, but we will remember what we decided was worth fighting for.
I choose to make my employer successful in an embattled economy. I choose to find a way to worship with others. I choose to strengthen my community.
Just like the Circles at my church, I will have to start small and lay one brick at a time. If my work is torn down, I will start again. Life goes on.
I encourage everyone to choose something to fight for. Find a way to embrace what has slipped away from us. Navigate through the various orders that have posed obstacles. Respect authority but do not surrender what our hearts hold dear.
Our circumstances may be fractured, but our spirits cannot be broken. It is time to rebuild.
I’ve got two projects that are racing around in my mind. One will encourage worship and community. The other is an investment in my family. I’d love to share those now, but they will have to wait until another post and another day. I’ve got work to do building the future.
On the off chance that someone picks up this post thirty years from now and reads it, they will never be able to fully appreciate that introduction. It will be like a funny story that you tell a friend who just stares back at you when they should be laughing along. No matter how hard you try to explain, they just don’t get it. In an act of final desperation, you exclaim “I guess you had to be there.” To my future readers, I apologize in advance.
Cheryl moved to Chattanooga last summer to be closer to her grandkids. Her new home was four houses down from my Dad, but their paths never crossed until this February. In an effort to get out of the house and meet some people, she begrudgingly went to a get-together sponsored by the Home Owner’s Association at the community clubhouse.
As corny as it sounds, my Dad met Cheryl at a Valentine’s Day party.
After they’d been introduced, they each noticed the other driving home or taking a walk and made it a point to strike up a conversation. The conversations turned into a dinner invitation or a shared on-line movie.
Then COVID-19 struck.
Instead of creating isolation, the weeks-turned-months of The Lockdown gave them the chance to spend unlimited time together. They realized all the things they had in common, found that they enjoyed each other’s company, and…you knew where this was going from the Valentine’s Day reference, right?
They boldly set July 4th as their wedding date. Potential virus exposure made it a family-only event. They planned a simple ceremony and everything was progressing well until The Spike. The first victim was me and my family. With Texas lit up like a big ol’ coronavirus candle, we had to stay home.
My sister Kelly’s daughter contracted a fever the afternoon before the wedding. I remember when a kid with a low-grade fever was no big deal. In 2020, it is like finding out that you are about to spontaneously combust. Michal will get her COVID screen at the first available appointment, which will be most of a week after the fever that only lasted two hours. For now, she is locked away like Rapunzel. Kelly and her other two daughters drove to the wedding anyway, but wore masks and lurked in the shadows.
The twenty-five minute ceremony was held in a beautiful spot on the bank of the Tennessee River (a hundred yards from Dad’s house) and broadcast on Facebook Live. The minister kept a seven-foot social distance from the bride and groom. The families fanned out as if the wind had blown them, requiring each camera shot to take several seconds to slowly pan the small but scattered crowd.
Preston’s grand-daughter was adorable as she struggled with the bubble shooter before finally aiming and successfully firing at her toes. Cheryl’s family played a song beautifully on the violin and guitar, Kelly’s daughter sang her song wonderfully, and I blessed the happy couple with a closing prayer that was broadcast via a Bluetooth speaker (since I was 800 miles away).
Pictures were taken after the ceremony with people careful not to touch each other and some smiles hidden underneath the masks that were worn in an abundance of caution.
The irregularities may have been newsworthy in a different time, but in 2020 nobody noticed a thing.
The unusual wedding may not be most people’s ideal, but it was Cheryl and Dad’s blessing. Most people will remember 2020 as the year they were cut off from everyone. Cheryl and Jim will remember it as the year they were brought together. Most people will recall 2020 with a shudder because they couldn’t do anything they wanted. Cheryl and Jim will remember it as the year they were never interrupted. Most people will reflect on 2020 as a year that couldn’t end soon enough. Cheryl and Jim will remember it as a season they hope never ends.
When I tell people about the wedding, I get one of two responses. The first response is to laugh that someone would try to hold a wedding in the middle of a pandemic. The second response is surprise that anyone would remarry in their seventies.
I’m proud of my father and his new wife. They knew the ceremony would be nontraditional. They also knew they would have to release decades worth of habits as they build a new life together. That takes courage.
In his new house, Dad probably won’t be able to find his phone charger or know where to put laundry away. It will be weeks before he figures out where to put his rowing machine and even longer before he adjusts to his trusty, green recliner being gone. Cheryl cleared out space in her home after her decorator had just finished. She gave up half her drawers and closet space. Wow!
Each of them let go of the parts of their past that stood in the way of embracing their dreams in the future.
God has good plans for all of us, but they are scary sometimes. We have to let go of preferences and the ideas of “how things are supposed to be” and have faith that He has something even better for us.
So much gloom has hung over the past months. Stay-in-place orders, shutdowns of businesses, remote-only worship services, record unemployment rates, and the looming specter that schools may not open for the fall. Too many days, Kim and I have looked at each other and asked what we want to do tonight only to shrug apathetically and respond that we feel “Meh”.
It is time to dream again. It is time to believe that God has Jeremiah 29:11 visions for each of us and that he will unveil them if we continue to ask. When we have doubts, may God open our eyes.
When I needed hope, God gave me something better than a hillside full of warriors. He showed me my dad, whose open eyes were able to focus on the prize without being distracted by the events that surrounded him. Regardless of all the “only in 2020” moments captured in each picture’s background, every image shows him focused on the life and love that God placed in front of him
I am so lucky to have a dad whose love eclipses his comfort. I am thankful that his hope is bigger than his fear. And he was favored to find a woman just as noble.
Congratulations, Cheryl and Dad. May you have long lives together, filled with love and joy. Thank you for continuing to demonstrate how to live a kingdom life.
“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:
