…a time to weep and a time to laugh,
a time to mourn and a time to dance
Ecclesiastes 3:4 (NIV)
How do you gather your thoughts in a basket with holes? Well, I try. Writing helps.
It’s an understatement to say it’s been a sad few days.
A disturbed person may choose a target, and that’s what happened last Friday. I know you know this, but I feel the need to restate it—a sniper killed five people (Dallas police officers) while they worked at a peaceful protest that night.
I feel sadness then fatigue then distraction. My thoughts go round and round my head while I sit still, while I run errands, while I’m at church. What does it all mean? Has it always been this bad?
Growing up in the seventies and eighties in North Oak Cliff, I didn’t think so. Sunset High School, the school I attended, was nicely integrated. I know there were attitudes beneath the surface, but for the most part, I feel we felt more of a modern generation, a generation that didn’t necessarily register race at first glance. Even then and knowing that others of our age would’ve concurrently lived a more segregated lifestyle, it wasn’t that way for us. Was it perfect? No. In fact, my own youthful lack of caution and ignorance may have offended some person at some time. I cringe to think of such a mistake. I hope you’ll forgive my lack of sensitivity if that’s the case, but please know it wasn’t on purpose. It was more from the unspoken assumption on my part that we are equal.
I would prefer you think of me as a person first. I would rather give you the same consideration, yet be assured I respect your right to be proud of any part of your heritage or identity. On second thought, I would love it if you thought of me as a Christ-follower.
But to get back on track, the fact of the matter is that we’re still self-segregated, although I view it more as a socioeconomic (possibly educational) divide, instead of a racial divide—not even a religious one.
Last week makes me think I may be wrong.
In the meantime and as a white, middle-aged housewife that lives in a fairly diverse Houston suburb, I wonder what I might change in my own life. What do I need to do? I’ve yet to come to a conclusion other than wild thoughts of moving my family farther into the city, somehow trying to breach that divide.
I don’t think that’s a possibility for now. Instead, I paste on an awkward albeit sincere smile as I go through life instead of looking down; I pray silent, disjointed words that only Christ understands; and I wait for an answer.
Then I’m brave enough to talk to my children about subjects I don't mind broaching but wish it wasn't a necessity. Subjects like how I believe we’re all equal but not the same. God made each of us in his image yet unique. “When the heart breaks, no, it don’t break even,” after all.* And things about life not being fair, but I still feel it’s good. And in saying this acknowledging how blessed I am, and the irony that it may be too easy for me to hang on to that hope due to my background and circumstances.
And people I don’t know…just people…giving me awkward smiles back.
No man is an island,
Entire of itself,
Every man is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less.
As well as if a promontory were.
As well as if a manor of thy friend's
Or of thine own were:
Any man's death diminishes me,
Because I am involved in mankind,
And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls;
It tolls for thee.
by John Donne
*Lyrics from “Breakeven” by The Scripts
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