I'm the girl who can't watch the Hunger Games trailer without crying. I'm the girl who lives in fear that I will die young (or my children or husband will - depends on the day). I'm the girl who feels perpetually inadequate. I'm the girl who avoids the news because it overwhelms me with sadness.
But I didn't avoid the news of Trayvon Martin.
And I didn't avoid the meanness (and racism) that spewed from Internet commenters.
And I have been overwhelmed with horror.
Others have written much more eloquently about the tragic loss of Trayvon and the hidden prejudice it brings to light. Among others: Glennon Melton, Jen Hatmaker, and the one that helped me the most, Shaun King. I have no real wisdom to share. But to my children I will say:
Please, please don't deny someone else's experience because it's different than yours.
I don't know what it's like to be black in America. Or what it's like to have a black son. But I do know that racism and prejudice still exist, and that to deny that is to deny the very real experience of a whole lot of people. And the very real experience of my own heart.
Yesterday I kept looking into the sweet, chocolate-brown eyes of my very white son, trying to imagine the horror of his life being taken from me by someone who thought he just didn't look right. And dear god in heaven, I found myself being thankful that he is white. Not because white is better, but because it's safer. What a screwed-up world we live in. And what a screwed-up heart is mine.
Which is why my tendency is to feel hopeless. How can we make the world a better place when we're so far apart? How can we come together when we're all so deeply entrenched in our own prejudices and myopic views? How can
Yesterday, in my despair, I drove off to a volunteer assignment for school. I was to hand out health surveys at an African American congregation's midday Lenten service. I didn't know the purpose of the surveys (turns out the hospital system is partnering with the local free clinic to plan for a new clinic in which the two entities will be partnered). I was just going so that I could check off the "volunteer" box for my degree requirements.
After handing out the surveys, we stayed for the service. It was very short (only about 30 minutes) but oh, so full. The music alone was worth the staying, but the part that sticks with me the most is the moment when the pastor stood up and said, "This candle is lit in memory of Trayvon Martin and for his family...and for all the families here who have experienced this kind of tragedy." In that moment as I was struggling not to cry, I realized that the feeling in the room was not one of despair, but of strength and of hope.
This community has probably known of the tragedy since it happened a few weeks ago, before the mainstream media took it and ran with it, before I ever heard the name of Trayvon. I would imagine that their first response was also one of weeping and rage and despair, but if my imagining is right, they didn't stay stuck in that despair. They don't let despair have the last word.
They stand together with victims, but they don't despair. They desire for changed hearts and a better tomorrow, but they don't despair. They take responsibility for their own role in working toward a better tomorrow, but they don't despair despite the challenges and setbacks. In that service, the hum of hope and holding of hands washed over me, the outsider, lifting me up along with them. They are a community, and I felt the strenghth of the community in that place.
It is easy for me to despair. It is harder to look for hope. But I will try. I will remember that though we are far from the promised land, we are closer than we once were. I will remember that progress has been made, even when it seems too little and too slow. I will remember that hands bigger than mine are holding the whole world in its terrible, awful messiness. I will remember that a new day is coming.
"In the sweet by and by, what a day of rejoicing that will be..."
