Blog : Give Me Grace

I was already upset when I got off the plane in Missouri last year so the welcome of a face punching 98 degree wave of heat was no surprise. I’d come to visit Ferguson in the aftermath of the killing of an unarmed Michael Brown.

Riots ensued. The National Guard was called in. Ron Johnson, a highway patrol officer was asked to take control of security operations in the embattled city. 

There was lots to see. Lots to talk about. I had lots to learn.

The trip was an opportunity for God to do a little grace work in me and I knew it wouldn’t be comfortable. In fact, I knew it would be a fight.
Typically, I seek justice with prayer and as many tears. I consider myself a peaceful warrior. But sometimes justice demands a battle. Sometimes you have to get dirty and align yourself with a movement by writing and posting and sharing and talking. It may mean losing a friend. All of it is worthy work but it’s still hard work.

Just off Florissant Avenue, a stream of roses marked the makeshift memorial. The dried blood-red of the rose petals made me think of Christ but it didn’t make me think of love. Love, I thought, couldn’t have anything to do with this. But it did.

That Saturday I walked along Canfield Drive and soaked in the vibe, the energy of a community hurt, angry…divided and prayed for hope. I saw myself on both sides of the battle field and I didn’t want to choose. I was afraid of what would happen if I lost hope. I left Ferguson with one thought in mind. Lord use me in the middle, let me be the woman who hopes.

A year later and I’m still wrestling with God about reconciliation. We’ve lost too many lives and have borne the weight of our unanswered questions. Why? How? The soul cry in the street can’t be ignored – it’s the voice of a people who’ve had enough.

#BlackLivesMatter!

It’s the only answer, our single, most meaningful unified response. It’s also a reminder to take care of ourselves. Depression is real. It’s a steely frustration manifested as silence when you want and need to speak. It’s tears you can’t explain – a delayed and nameless grief.

#BlackLivesMatter!

We’re simultaneously confirmed and ignored. Marinating in mixed messages like this is unhealthy and wisdom knows the value of quiet time.

I’m tired of explaining why it’s worth saying, why my saying it doesn’t ignore the value of any other life. I’m tired of the fight that goes along with the words. The repeated attacks on blackness and black life have left me emotionally and psychologically drained. Each loss is a blow I don’t expect, and happens with such frequency I can’t reciprocate.

The death of 12-year-old Tamir Rice was my wrecking ball.

A part of me had to step away. As much as I want to be the woman on the front lines, now, for me, is a season of rest and much needed self-care. I’m not out of the fight – I’m in recovery.

I’m learning that as it is with the sacrifice of Christ, fair has nothing to do with it. Love does. I have to hold on to hope to keep from falling. I don’t want to be bitter. It would be easy, almost natural to feel that way but it’s not what I want, not what God called me to live for. So love, only love. It’s what gives me peace.

Whatever happened that day opened the nations eyes to a city “that used its police and courts as moneymaking ventures, a place where officers stopped and handcuffed people without probable cause, hurled racial slurs, used stun guns without provocation, and treated anyone as suspicious merely for questioning police tactics.”

It opened our eyes to similar injustices all over the country and the need for a church that would rise up and be counted among the conversations.

God answered my prayer…praise God I am a woman who hopes but a year later I’m still processing. Staying in the battle means believing – believing reconciliation is still something to hope for.

Join me at The High Calling for a little more about that when you have the time.