No justice.
No peace.
No racist police.
That chant, spoken en masse at a Chicago Black Lives Matter
protest and march, keeps reverberating in my head and heart. It stirred me as
lines and lines of blacks, whites, young, old, middle-aged, parents pushing
strollers, workers carrying briefcases and placards paraded past me on a Loop
street corner, bookended by police on bicycles. The whites who’d duct-taped
their mouths were powerful metaphors. Walking with my teenagers to meet my
husband for an early dinner, I’d encountered the group. I desperately wanted to
throw in with them, even for the half block to the restaurant. I didn’t.
After dinner, we strayed to Millennium Park, where the march
coincidentally led. My youngest and I worked our way closer and joined hands
with the protesters. We widened our circle and embrace to include newcomers.
This wasn’t about race, it was about justice. As a white person with privilege
I have not earned, I wanted to BE with my suffering brothers and sisters, to
share their pain and plight. To listen and understand with my heart. God had
called me to this place.
I had just spent the weekend at the most inclusive,
beautiful wedding with a rainbow of guests, learning that, if transitioning
from female to male, your maternal grandfather is you best reference for “how
furry” you’re likely to become. And that a committed couple – no matter their
sexual identity or preference – can love more profoundly than you’ve ever
witnessed at a wedding. I was inspired at the open atmosphere and the courage
of people being who they truly are. God smiled that day.
Approached on the subway by a gentleman trying to get his
life on track after prison, I handed him $10. “Mom,” one daughter said, “didn’t
you mean to give him a one?” I hadn’t. He asked for a quarter and God said to
give him more.
The morning we were leaving, we met Dash, a four-year-old
probably on the Autism spectrum, at breakfast. He’d wandered outside while his
father paid. I had waved to him in the window. He asked if we were strangers.
After exchanging names, said we weren’t and invited us to his house. He wanted
to know if he could have a turn sitting under the umbrella-ed table. I moved
over and his father joined me. While my husband and Dash’s father engaged in
shop talk, I searched my wallet for change, tossing coins on the ground to
confine Dash’s treasure quest to where his father could see him. Later, my
husband said the father expressed gratitude that his son was manageable. They were
having breakfast before Dash’s therapeutic school began. God was teaching the
value of looking deeper at people and circumstance.
We were accompanied by several sight-impaired young adults
and their aids on our last ride into the city. Later, my oldest spied them at
the French Market having coffee. They were out for an adventure many of us take
for granted. God was tossing me a pun: look at the world with your heart, not
your eyes.
The entire trip was riddled with humble encounters signaling
that, indeed, the last are first. What privilege do I really own? God’ grace
and guidance.
• How have I been humbled?
• When has God spoken to me through an encounter with
another?
• When have I followed God’s nudge?
• When haven’t I?
• Where do I experience God’s richness in my life?
the ribbon
in my heart
unwound
reaching out
as if God's
hand
tapping those
the world views
as less
telling me
they are
more
so much
more
