Fires raged on Pentecost

Fires raged on Pentecost Sunday. Fanned not by the Spirit, but by the insidious winds of hatred and oppression. 

As a white woman, living in a comfortable home, in a predominantly white community, I must tread carefully. I’m standing on holy ground. I have not earned the right to be here. This is the time for other, far wiser voices, to speak their truth.

With his final breath, George Floyd called to his mother. And what followed was a universal keening – from mothers, and those who mother. From sisters and aunties and grandmothers. A deep, resounding, global, anguish that cut to the core. We cry out with our black sisters. Drop to our knees beneath the cross. Oh God. Oh God…

Another senseless killing of an unarmed black human being.

Someone’s son. A child of God.

Mothers shouldn’t have to say goodnight to their children with bedtime stories of what to do if confronted by a police officer.

Mothers shouldn’t have to worry about whether their child will make it home safely after buying Skittles at the corner store. Or after a nightly jog. Or an afternoon of birdwatching.

Mothers shouldn’t have to worry that their child will be shot – repeatedly – in their own bed, in the middle of the night, by police officers hiding behind a ‘no-knock’ warrant.

Now I lay me down to sleep.

I pray the Lord my soul to keep.

If I should die before I wake…

No mother, no father, no loved one should have to experience this kind of pain.

There have been too many deaths. Too many sons and daughters murdered. Too many names forgotten – as names of other murdered sons and daughters take their place. Too many names never heard.

As a white woman, living in a comfortable home, in a predominantly white community, I must tread carefully. I’m standing on holy ground. I have not earned the right to be here. This is the time for other, far wiser voices, to speak their truth. To name their reality. To guide the way.

I’m thankful for their counsel, and their amazing grace. I’m listening.