Our world is on FIRE

Surprisingly, I never thought I would find myself here. In this place. In this moment. Feeling this heaviness…

This morning started the way many of my mornings start. I woke up to a gentle shake from my husband. He greets me with a kiss and says he loves me. I reply the same, and he’s off to work. I see a text from one of my babies, which was an unexpected surprise. I respond… I open the Bible app, read the day’s scripture. Ponder it for a bit and close the app. I open my Facebook app and then my serenity is shattered. I see in my notifications, that a friend has shared a post from a person I follow. I begin to read a horrible story of yet another unarmed black man being shot and killed. As I’m reading, I will myself to stop. Just. Stop. Reading. It can only get worse if you continue. I didn’t stop, and it did get worse. As I type this, I am reminded of this morning’s verse. Psalm 91:2  I will say of the Lord, “He is my refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust.” Reading this verse this morning, gave me a moment of happiness as I thought of a few things I’m struggling with, where I could use some refuge. Little did I know, I was being empowered for another task…

 I finished reading the post. Then, I remember thinking that I had to find out more. Surely there must be a video. Because maybe somehow the story can’t be fact, unless there is an accompanying video? (These incidents can cause so much irrational thinking in a normally rational person). That has to be it. No matter. I didn’t have to search far to find the video. I watched. Even more horrified. Then another post of the same video. The confirmation is there. This man is dead. This horror story is real life. I’m trying to gather my thoughts. Trying to understand something. Anything. I can’t. I don’t. The familiar text sound let’s me know that my husband is sending me a message. I’m certain he’s letting me know he made it to work safely. I read it. He’s saying he loves me, and to have a “blessed and peaceful day“. We say these things to each other every morning. It’s a routine, but the words still carry weight. I don’t want to hijack the moment with sorrow. So I respond that I love him and thank him with cute emojis. Then. I must. I tell him to look up Terence Crutcher. I can’t bring myself to tell him what I know. He must experience the shock first hand. After a brief period of time. He responds and a heartbreaking text exchange ensues…

I have had my own thoughts and justifications and outrage and whatever other feelings can come after hearing all of these stories. I’ve never spoken publicly about any of this. Mostly, because I don’t always agree with the majority, on actions that should be taken. Often, because I can’t seem to formulate words to express my feelings. Sometimes, because I don’t want to debate about it. Frequently, because I just feel there is no hope. But today. Terence Crutcher. This story was different. I don’t know why. But, something about this story made its way to my core. Deep down inside my soul, something shattered. I literally felt grief. The kind of grief that aches in your bones. The kind of sadness that rips at your muscles. The kind of pain that makes the word lament come to mind, when you form a sentence in your thoughts. After reading and watching, his story made all of the other recent stories, flood into my brain like an adrenaline rush. I am not minimizing the sadness of any of the other people who have lost their lives. But, the hurt just didn’t quite penetrate my body the way this death did… 

I managed to keep the tears on the edge of my lower lids. Balancing themselves as if on a tightrope. The breaking point coming as I read his text stating: “Babe I’m black and I’ll be honest I’m afraid”. It takes a lot to shake my husband. He’s my hero in all areas of life. He’s strong whenever I need him to be. And even when I don’t. But, when you see words like this, you realize, this is it. This thing is powerful. This fear of being a black man in America is true. When my husband says he’s afraid? I know that my fears over the last several months, have not been irrational. I’ve been afraid. For years. But, I tried to force myself to believe that I was just being overly sensitive. Surely it must be silly for me to believe that my husband could be somehow caught in the path of a police bullet, and killed just for being black. This must be a preposterous idea. That can’t happen. But, my friends, yes it can. It can happen. To ANYONE. At ANYTIME. For NO REASON. But, then I think. There is a reason. They are black. That’s the characteristic they all shared. Then I want to rationalize it. Maybe the cops were afraid for their lives, in some of the cases. But then I think, like so many others, why didn’t they just shoot him/her in the leg? You could literally lose your mind trying to get an answer to why. So, I shoved the questions down. I read the stories and expressed outrage in the privacy of my home. I shook my head time and time again as the police were cleared of any wrongdoing. I expressed shame as many protesters destroyed their neighborhoods in disgust. I felt the surge of hopelessness as I saw the stories play out day after day, week after week, month after month, and sadly, year after year. This isn’t a post to give you any answers and to say that I know how this ends. Maybe you can shed some light on how we overcome this tragic epidemic. I am just sharing my thoughts…

The other day we were in the store with our grandson. His mom and I were there to do the boring work of exchanging his too small outfit for one that fit. He took his Paw Paw’s hand and they sauntered into the toy section. We met up after a while and we watched as he went from toy to toy, aisle to aisle. He would pick up a toy and put it back as another caught his attention. We went through this for quite a while. I always want to get educational toys. Paw Paw likes the fun stuff.  But, this day, was about whatever Nemo wanted. He ended up with an Elmo toy that sang ABCs and 123s and such. I was happy. We were all happy. As we headed toward the checkout, he spotted a sword. He walked over, picked it up, and continued toward the checkout. We all laughed at how easily he grabbed it and carried on. Without a second thought. There was no discussion about it. He saw what he wanted and that was that. Sadly, my next thought was, “man I hope he doesn’t develop some weird obsession with swords and end up getting killed behind it.” Literally. In that moment. In the store. After watching the pride on his face, as he claimed that sword. He held it against himself, with a steady grip on the handle, and he knew it was his. He was probably remembering a scene from Jake and the Never Land Pirates. But all I could think about was, his life being taken in a senseless act. I’m angry that I sometimes can’t enjoy a happy moment, because in the next breath fear creeps in and strangles me. He’s 2 years old and I wish he could stay 2 forever. Stay my tiny human, who cradles Elmo in one arm and grips his sword in the other hand. Trusts the world and knows no fear or hate. All while his Gammaw cries and asks God why. Why another black man had to die like this. Why I have to fear my grandson growing up as a black man in America. Why we even have to question the motives of the police. Why, God, why? 

Maybe I’ve been in a self imposed bubble for fear of facing this reality head on. I spend a lot of time in my head and I know that I can overthink things. But I suspect that overthinking could potentially save lives. Or can it? We can what if this thing until we are physically ill and still have no relief. What if they had just turned around? Or put their hands up/down. What if they didn’t have a toy gun? Surely by now black parents have taught their kids to not play with toy guns. What if he/she didn’t move too quickly? What if? What if? What if? Black people can do all the right things, apparently, and still end up dead. No, it’s not just black people. Yes, it can seem like it is sometimes. No, I don’t know what to do. What to say. How to feel. Yes, I’m afraid. Yes, I believe God cares. But, when I read these words:

I’m left with that familiar feeling of hopelessness. I feel like our world is on fire and no amount of water or flame retardant will extinguish it. This fire is burning through our families. Our relationships. It’s ravaging our hearts. Leaving us cold and bitter. It’s singeing our resolve. Leaving us incapacitated and fearful. So many of us are on edge, wanting to run away to a deserted island. Someplace far from this madness. We internalize these stories, absorbing what we feel are key points and discarding the rest. Praying the stories don’t hit any closer to home than we can stand. But, trying to convince ourselves that, we could be next. So be ready. All the while, the rest of non black America, and the rest of the world, wakes up, lives the day, goes to sleep and repeats. What do I say to my husband, at a time like this, when he is afraid and so am I? I don’t know. I have no words for that. But, I will cherish every moment we have, because honestly, you just never know.