Dear Michael

As I drove down the Cedar Creek Road yesterday, I spotted a new billboard. It has a black background with just a few lines of white letters. I thought, "It's another one of those cheesy Christian billboards." There are a few of them around this area. Some of them cheesier than others. They read things like, "Let's meet at my house Sunday, before the game. -God." or "When I said love one another, I meant that. -God" I don't like them. Maybe they were meant to spur people to worship God and love one another, but, to me, they feel like a shaming tactic. "You're not doing the right thing. Better start. -God" 

But as I got closer, I read this text: 

Dear Michael, 

I love you. Please forgive me and come home. 

-Dad 

My eyes flooded with tears. I don't know who Michael and his dad are, or what the truth of their story really is, but this dad's effort to get through to his son shook me to the core. 

As I continued to drive down the road, I thought, "Why did I dismiss this billboard when I thought it was a cheesy Christian message, but then was so moved by it when I realized it was a real story about a real father and son?" 

Shame has been my constant companion for many years. Only in recent years have I learned to identify it. I'm still working out what to do with it once I've recognized it. So, when I thought the billboard was a cheesy (maybe well-intentioned?) Christian message that made me feel shame, I wanted to dismiss it. I'm not exaggerating when I say that the majority of my experience as a Christian has felt like I was constantly being given this message- "You're sinful. Repent and try harder." My bucket is full up when it comes to shame. No need to add on more. 

But when I realized the message was a cry for reconciliation, my heart ached. I can imagine Michael and his dad arguing, both of them letting out pent-up anger, launching words at one another meant to inflict the most damage possible. Maybe things got physical. Or maybe, it wasn't a blow-out like that. Maybe it was a long pattern of quieter conversations in which Michael felt not listened to or respected. Maybe his desires were ignored, his heart overlooked. Maybe his dad always had to be right. 

Whatever their circumstance is, Michael's dad seems to be feeling the full effect of their falling out. To go to the length of paying for a billboard that announces to everyone driving down that road that 1) their relationship has ended and 2) he needs to be forgiven in order for it to mend demonstrates how crushed and desperate he must be. 

I love Michael's dad for that. I can't stop praying for him. I don't know what kind of dad he has been. He could be a narcissist or an alcoholic for all I really know. Maybe Michael had to get out of there for his own sanity and safety. But, I have to say, that if this demonstration of paternal remorse and love are what they seem, then Michael is pretty lucky. 

Seems like his dad isn't gaslighting him. Isn't trying to find a scapegoat. Isn't over-spiritualizing. Isn't denying. Isn't clueless as to his own role. 

Michael, wherever you are, I pray you are safe. I pray you are able to heal. And I pray that you will go home. 

Michael's dad, wherever you are. Thanks for showing me that fathers can break, even in public, to get back to their children. I hope you heal. I hope you get to hug your son. 

I told my pastor about this and said he needed to use it in a sermon one day. He said it reminded him of the prodigal son's story. A story that might be better named, "The running father."  It reminds me that the God Jesus talked about doesn't shame, scapegoat, gaslight. Doesn't launch words or hit with fists. Doesn't manipulate words or people so he can come out looking good or get his own way. He is the type of father who would do like Michael's dad- he would remind us of his love. He would ask us to come home. 

After all this time?

This Lenten season, I've decided to put on, rather than take away. I guess, like most working parents, the pandemic has weakened my resolve and frazzled my nerves to the point that I barely entertained the idea of the chocolate and alcohol fast that has been my Lenten go-to for the past few years. Pandemic or no pandemic, though, I've discovered in the past week that "putting on" isn't exactly a cake walk- mmm...chocolate cake... told you fasting wasn't in the cards this year. 

Last week, I tried putting on patience. I chose this virtue first because my school had to pivot, once again, to our virtual platform because of a COVID exposure, and I knew that I needed patience to make it through. I meditated on this virtue each morning and explored places that I saw patience at work (or not at work) in my life. The "results" were grimmer than I had anticipated. Virtual school is a struggle for me. I spend a lot of time trying to convert lessons to virtual format, but then still worry about my students' engagement and comprehension. All that time in front of a computer sitting in basically the same hunched-over position makes me physically ill. Grades were due yesterday and the day ended with the question that scorched the earth of all marriages in 2020-"who is supposed to be watching the kids during this Zoom meeting?" So is it any wonder that my week of meditation on patience ended in a roar when I  accidentally smacked my hand against the wall while telling my kids that yes, they do, in fact,  have to wash their hands after playing at a public park. I had to go into the other room and let out the yell. Story thought I was screaming because of her and was on the verge of tears. I apologized while unpacking her Happy Meal. When I began my week of meditation on patience, this wasn't how I envisioned it ending. 

So, I'm a bit scared of putting on what I feel needs to come next. This week I will try to put on love. 

I'm up in the middle of the night because of love. Because love for my son means I wake up when he calls out in the night, and because love for God drives me to use these wee hours to think and read about Him, once I'm wide awake. 

I think about God a lot. Both in the day and night. I have since my early 20's. But my thoughts have shifted with age. My mind has never been an easy place, and my heart, now that I'm getting to know its terrain in my 30's is less easy still. The pitches of faith that once felt easy to climb, have grown steeper as I've stepped away from certainty and embraced a less evangelical theology. To some, this might look like a loss of love for the Almighty. But does a loss of certainty mean a loss of affection for the Holy One? 

I used to think that it might. It's a scary thing to shift one's faith. It makes people angry, concerned and uncomfortable- let alone what it does to one's own psyche. That's another blog (er..book? for another day... let's stay focused on love) And in that shift, maybe the most frightening thought of all is this- will I lose the Person that I have grown to love? Will questioning, shifting, probing around in my beliefs terminate my affection for the Almighty? This question has kept me up in nights past. Happily, though- I'm here with an answer to that question. An answer borne of many sleepless nights, flowing tears, countless conversations, podcasts and prayers, poems and books- an imperfect and developing answer that reflects my untidy and unfinished love. 

 Pastor Howard has us reading John Meacham's The Hope of Glory for Lent. He puts the answer beautifully 

"Fundamentalist believers and fundamentalist atheists would both do well, I think, to acknowledge that literalism may be comforting but is ultimately dangerous, for an uncritical acceptance of one worldview or another (whether in religion or politics) ends more conversations than it begins. Light can neither emanate from nor enter into a closed mind...without reason we cannot appreciate complexity; we cannot rightly appreciate the majesty and mystery of God and without rightly appreciating the majesty and mystery of God, we foreclose the possibility of the miraculous and the redemptive."

Love is deep, complex, and beyond where I currently am. My love for God, deep and untidy as it may be, is but a speck compared to God's love for me, for humanity, for this created world. Because God is love. And God is deep and complex and beyond. But love, because of "the miraculous and the redemptive" is also here. And it is in deep contemplation of that truth, that I've found fertile soil for love to grow. Those pitches of faith have become steep and sometimes uncomfortable, but the view from here is phenomenal. I've never been able to see so much love as from these wobbly heights. 

I read Harry Potter in the past year. To some Christians, this is heresy. To those who've read, though, you'll understand what I'm about to say. Maybe it's all that needs to be said as I begin this week of reflection on love-  

Jesus. 

After all this time? 

Always.  

The One that Took Me Four Years to Write

 

A little over four years ago, I sat on the bed in the middle of a November night watching numbers climb while my heart fell. It was happening. He was going to win.

In the days after, I wasn’t filled with outrage, but my spirit sank. It was a lot to take in. I had already seen enough of him- enough egocentrism and bullying to know what lie ahead, or at least,  the pale foreshadows of it.

I remember reading Garrison Keillor’s piece in the Washington Post on November 9, 2016. His prediction for himself and people like him.

We liberal elitists are now completely in the clear. The government is in Republican hands. Let them deal with him. Democrats can spend four years raising heirloom tomatoes, meditating, reading Jane Austen, traveling around the country, tasting artisan beers, and let the Republicans build the wall and carry on the trade war with China and deport the undocumented and deal with opioids, and we Democrats can go for a long , brisk walk and smell the roses.

He had my number, for sure. I might not self-identify as a “liberal elitist”, but I actually did all of those things over the past four years- except that I read Harry Potter instead of Jane Austen. But our tomatoes were quite lovely. He wasn’t being glib. He goes on to predict the damage that would come, but he knew that people like me wouldn’t be able to do anything about it. Can any amount of gardening, meditating or travel help us recover from the soul-wounds we’ve suffered the past four years?

Let me check my privilege. I am a white heterosexual, Christian female. The limits on my life are mostly self-imposed. The fears I face are from within and the suffering I endure is mostly spiritual and emotional. There are billions of people in this world who have a much harder row to hoe. But, because I am human, I suffer. Because I am a person with a soul, I grieve.

Some people say this isn’t a Democrat vs. Republican thing. To be honest, I don’t really know. I’m a high school science teacher. I know little about politics. I’ve forgotten a lot of what I learned in civics class, and I rely heavily on my trusted loved ones to help me understand what’s happening in the government. My parents are Democrats. And my husband was a Republican when I married him. After years of thinking I was righter than him, I started to listen. I didn’t always agree, but I started to understand. So I know a little bit about both sides. I love people on both sides. 

Putting the D and the R in front of what I’m trying to say here, though- it seems too small. Though, maybe, for some, it does boil down to that, because once I said “liberal elitist”, ya’ll were out, if you even made it that far.  

That quick exit is one of the reasons I haven’t written about this. In four years- I, who like to write, who sometimes need to write, haven’t written about this man and the division he’s helped create. There are a lot of reasons why. Remember those fears within me? I’m terrified of other people’s words. I’ve been so scared of other people’s opinions about what I might write that I’ve kept my words hidden. But it hasn’t only been fear. Good sense has also kept me quiet. There’s a lot more that I don’t know than I do know. I try not to write about things that I don’t know. I’ve learned to sit with it and try to figure it out before putting words to it. I’ve sat with it for four years. I haven’t figured it out, but I’ve figured out how I feel about it.  So here you go, whether you like it or not. And you can have at the Facebook comments. I’m not going to respond.

Some of my friends told me that they felt hopeful on Wednesday, January 20, 2021. I admit that I cried when I saw those masked faces walking through the guarded doors. The Bushes, the Obamas, Mike Pence and then, the winners of the 2020 election. Their arrival brought on a departure of the tension I’ve held in for four years. But it’s a little too early for hope for me.

“My hope is built on nothing less than Jesus’ blood and righteousness,” wrote Edward Mote in 1834. Those words are so deeply etched into my soul, that, as much as I love America, I don’t put my hope in it. As many good things that can come from liberty and justice for all, it isn’t enough. Easy for me to say as a middle class white lady. Liberty and justice haven’t ever really been taken away from me, but I’ll take my cues from history, and from the saints throughout the ages who did suffer but believed that real hope is only found in one place- one Person. I like Joe Biden and Kamala Harris, and I love Barack and Michelle Obama. But I don’t hope in them. I never did. And, to be honest, I’m not sure that they would really want me to.

My hope has been, and still is, in Jesus. And that’s where my greatest grief has come from for four years. Because Jesus has been, and still is, dragged into the selfish, egotistical, careless, and I’ll just go ahead and say it- crazy musings of an out-of-control narcissist.

This isn’t my first rodeo with this, though. There are a lot of narcissists out there abusing Jesus and his people. They’re in charge of churches, families, non-profits and missions organizations. But they’ve never been president before. And that’s where, in my opinion, Donald Trump has truly damaged the soul of America.

For many people, Trump represents something morally reprehensible, something foul that has brought reckless damage to the soul of our nation. Some of those people believe, like me, that their hope is built on nothing less than Jesus. Some of them do not believe in Jesus. How we define the soul of America is different for different Americans. I love those Americans, and I’m certain that nothing could be more important from me in this hour than to agree that our soul does, indeed, need time to heal, however we define it. Now is not the time for me to talk about my beliefs about the eternal soul. That’s another conversation for another day.

Now is the time for me to say, if only to myself, that though God’s mercy falls on Donald Trump like sweetest rain this morning, just like it falls on me- that he is not a representation of the Jesus on whom I’ve built my hope. But after four years of his boasts and his lies, some people still believe that he is. I have to write down, out of love, and out of the hope that's etched so deeply into my soul- that he is not.

Donald Trump loves himself. In four years, that’s all I’ve seen him do. He doesn’t love God or America. He doesn’t love Republicans, and he hates liberal elitists and their tomatoes. But Jesus does not. Jesus loves me. He loves me, exactly as I am, exactly where I am, for exactly who I am. This doesn’t mean I’m perfect. It doesn’t mean that I’m not aware of my sinfulness. But it does mean that  I’m awake to the reality that I live in a country, in a time and in a Church in which I need to preach that Gospel to myself and the people I love. Because we live in a country, in a time and in a Church, when many followers of Jesus have forgotten. Instead, they've replaced that truth with a belief that says you have to share a conservative value system, hate liberals, vote against certain policies and follow this (now former) President to be counted a "true" follower of Jesus. 

I reject that. And, though it's taken me four years- I’m writing it down. I won’t listen to you, Christian Trump-supporters. I can't. Because your message is damaging my soul and the soul of this country.  But I’m not going to hate you. I’m not going to view you as my enemy or “the problem" with everything in our society. I’m not going to pray pitying prayers so filled with condescension that they would turn our God’s stomach, rather than his ear. I’m just going to remind myself, each and every day, that my hope is built on someone who loves me, and because of that love, he has never asked and never will ask that I allow myself and my brothers and sisters to be abused by a narcissist bully. And I'll put my hope in this- that God is true and that God is love and that his name will come through this in the end, pure and holy and still eager to have mercy on even you and even me.

God bless me. God bless you. And God bless America.

photo credit The Kansas City Star 

Why it's so important for me to say Black Lives Matter

A Facebook friend posted an article about the Black Lives Matter Organization. The article is pretty strongly opinionated about Christians using the hashtag #blacklivesmatter. Reading it made me think, research, grieve and pray.

I've been grieving and praying since the beginning of June, since I first learned about George Floyd's death. I can't remember how I heard about it, actually. Maybe it was the news. Maybe Facebook. All I know is that I began to hear his name, that there was a video (which I haven't been able to bring myself to watch), followed by protests and outrage, riots and looting, and a maelstrom of public opinion. I've read some amazing pieces- facebook posts, poetry, cries to action, calls to repentance. I've listened to podcasts and music. I've had conversations- with my husband, my pastor, my "quaranteam" friends, and probably most importantly, my black Christian friends.

As I considered my own culpability in the system- as a sinner, and a white female, but also a redeemed and beloved child of God, I wrote a few things down here in the blog to help me process those thoughts.  I haven't written anything profound or that hundreds of people aren't saying with better words than mine. I've even thought- "Why write about it at all? So much is already being said." I guess that part of the answer to that question is that writing forces me to be just a little bit brave. It's not that my words are going to convince someone of a different mindset to change their convictions. I think we're all witnessing the reality that people become more and more entrenched in their own ideas, no matter what is said. But maybe my words will make my own convictions sink deeper into my heart- that jagged mess that keeps crying out for attention and healing. And maybe someone else whose heart aches the way that mine does will hear the same hopeful message that I've received, and will be comforted.

Why has George Floyd's death caused me to grieve? Clearly he is not the first black man whose life was brutally taken by a white person manifesting their power in violence (just writing that sentence makes me feel sick). So why his death particularly? I'm sure there are a lot of factors that come into play for those of us who are grief-stricken and motivated to speak and act in the wake of his death- but for me, a lot of it has to do with timing. Some of George's last words were "I can't breathe." I've spent the past two and a half years struggling with chronic anxiety. One of my symptoms has been chest pain. Pain so bad that it has kept me up at night, pain that I thought would never end, that couldn't be alleviated by anything (except the occasional beautiful afternoon in the garden). I spent months feeling like I couldn't breath, each chest expansion a hopeful but terrified guess at whether or not I'd be able to fill my lungs. (If you've never experienced anxiety, it's hard to imagine this, but anyone out there who has had a good old fashioned panic attack, you know exactly what I'm talking about). It could be that my struggle for breath has made me connect with George's cry. All I know is that anything I read or hear someone mention these last words of his, I fall to pieces.

My struggle with anxiety can't be boiled down to any one reason- that's one thing that I've learned since starting to recover from it! It's been a mixture of postpartum physiology, emotional and physical exhaustion and spiritual bemusement- but a MAJOR factor has been that I have been spiritually abused. If you don't know what spiritual abuse is (I didn't), then I have two tips for you- read Educated by Tara Westover and listen to these podcasts on spiritual abuse from the Allender Center. Spiritual abuse distorts the victim's view of God. And for someone like me, whose life is wrapped around the idea of God and what it means to be in relationship with God- it is devastating.

The overpowering grace of God has led me to a movement of Christians who see and understand spiritual abuse (and many other forms of abuse) and are moving out into the world with a swift, beautiful message that is pure Rescue. The message is this- Your story is real. Your story is being listened to. Your brokenness matters. You do not need to fix it. You are not to blame. And you are NOT alone.  

Spiritual abuse happens when someone who claims to hear from God projects a message that ignores the cries of the downcast, blames them for their brokenness and treats them as "other" often because of the very suffering that they have, in fact, caused. Spiritual abuse has broken my heart, frayed my faith and ultimately lead to physical suffering that has made me feel like I can't breathe. Maybe the worst thing about spiritual abuse is that it alienates the victim from the Healer. They're made to feel like they are outside the circle of acceptance- a dangerous and dark place, where literally anything can happen to a mind or a body.

My emotional response to the death of George Floyd is shrouded in this experience. My heart aches because, when I read articles like that one posted on Facebook about using the Black Lives Matter hashtag, I see the shaming of people in the name of God, the calling out of "unrighteous" ideology and the classification of suffering people as the "other." There is no consideration of the myriad sin-crushed, grace-starved systemic causes of the suffering that lead to the cry in the first place... at least, not that I can see. There is no pneuma here, no life-giving grace. No hope, no healing. Just a projection of what a righteous person should be, and the shaming of those who cannot live up to the standard. (News flash- that's all of us, by the way) This article is an echo of my own experiences of shame and spiritual abuse.

As I heal, one of the things that I'm learning to do is to sit with pain. I'm reading a book about how and why Christians need to learn when and how to sit with pain. The author, K.J. Ramsey, summarizes why I need to say Black Lives Matter this way-

Sin is calling a failure what is actually the fall. It's forgetting our origin story, the sin of self-sufficiency, and the outcome of living beyond the boundaries of what God has given. It's forgetting that every part of creation cries out because of the curse. It's forgetting that broken bodies, broken stories and broken relationships are the result of ancient sin. It's personalizing what are often bigger consequences of a massive story. Disease, disorders, weakness, poverty and grief are the losing legacy of humanity, the shards of sin shattering us, from the smallest cell to the largest cultural system. The Savior came and is coming again, but our healing is in his hands, not our own. If our Savior chose to enter the human story in a human body, then we should enter one another's places of suffering remembering we carry and extend the presence of Christ. Sin is any Christian's response to pain, poverty and weakness (and Meredith Wermel wants to include suffering from systemic racism in this list) that assumes they are problems to solve rather than places to patiently embody the solidarity of Jesus. 

This is the reason that I, as a person who claims the name of Jesus Christ as an integral part of my identity, need to say that Black Lives Matter. I say it in solidarity, not just with my brothers and sisters who are telling me that they are suffering, but in solidarity with Jesus who came and suffered for and with us. This suffering Savior is the central figure of my faith, and I'm convinced that to represent Him rightly means that I must sit, listen and hurt together with those who are telling their stories. Love requires this, and suffering hearts need this. This is the Rescue. Comparing, belittling, blame-shifting, denying, ignoring and judging the crushed in spirit is not. That is spiritual abuse. And I know well how that abuse keeps us from being able to breathe.

To my black brothers and sisters- Your story is real. Your story is being listened to. Your brokenness matters. You do not need to fix it. You are not to blame. You are NOT alone. Black Lives Matter. And the Gospel is for everyone.

After getting some feedback on the blog, I want to include this comment I wrote on my Facebook page: 

One thing I wish I had written in the blog: Black Lives Matter is both an organization and a movement. When I read the article I referred to in this blog that questions Christians who use #blacklivesmatter I took my time reading and considering the statements from the Black Lives Matter organization. I cannot say that I agree with all of them. I also cannot say that I agree with each and every statement put forth by churches that I’ve been a member of. But I’ve agreed with their central tenet and that’s been enough for me (after a lot of prayerful consideration- I don’t want to minimize that process or oversimplify it) The central tenet of the Black Lives Matter organization and the movement is to demand an end to racial inequality and violence against black people. This issue is obviously HUGE and cannot be dealt with in a single article written by anyone. What concerned me about that article and made me want to write a response is that I perceived the article as something that would discourage Christians from using the hashtag or affiliating with the movement by claiming that doing so means automatic agreement with all of the tenets of the organization. Again, I’m not sure I can think of any man-made system that I agree with 100% of their tenets. But I certainly do support movements and organizations with which I agree with their central tenets. (After a lot of consideration) And, for me, the Black Lives Matter movement is something that I want to stand with and support, not in spite of being a Christian, but because I AM a Christian.

To be clear: the organization helped start the movement, but the movement is not limited to the organization. Saying "Black Lives Matter" is loaded with meaning, and in this blog, I'm telling the story of what it means to me to say this and the reasons that I choose to say it. I realize that, for some people, there are other connotations. Here, I'm making a case for why I am saying it. The fear that other people might connect me with ideologies that I do not support is not as important to me as the desire to stand with those who are suffering and need support in this hour. If you have any questions, send me a DM! 

Of Barbie dolls and deep regret

It was December 2019 and I was looking at Amazon for the 2019 Holiday Barbie. Story saw her at Wal-Mart and had practically begged for her for Christmas. The 25th wasn't too many days away, and I was trying to wrap up my shopping. But the only Barbie that I could find for sale looked like this...

I debated for a few minutes- telling myself that Story would want a Barbie that looked more like her. (This isn't true, by the way. Ever since Story was old enough to hold any sort of baby doll, she's always gravitated toward babies and Barbies with darker skin than hers. )

And then, I clicked on through the loops and swirls of the online shopping world until I found a different doll. A whiter doll. And I gave that doll to her for Christmas.

I walked with my neighbors, church family and fellow citizens in the Dunn Unity Walk yesterday evening. My children carried signs and we chanted- "No Justice, No Peace!" When we neared City Hall, I passed a woman with a megaphone. She shouted "Say his name! Say his name! I can't breathe! I can't breath!" and I wept.

I still feel like weeping. Because, deep down, I think the evil that made that man keep his knee on George Floyd's neck is the same evil that made me keep clicking that December day.

I could argue that my upbringing was filled with lessons about equality (it was) or that I've always done my best to not judge someone because of the color of their skin. Or, I could just be silent, as I usually have been, afraid to speak up because I might offend my family or my neighbors or people I want to please. I could talk about the destruction of the riots and how God wouldn't desire that much violence. All of that might even be true. But it isn't the deepest truth. The deepest truth is that I clicked on that day because there is something inside of me, something old and evil- something absorbed from the centuries of inequitable life in this Southern land that whispered to me- "the dark one isn't good enough." 

God, forgive me. I am so, so, so sorry. Maybe my skin has always been white, but my heart hasn't been. And one thing that I am sure of- George Floyd's death has convinced me that I need to pray this prayer.

Wash me clean of my iniquity and cleanse me. Psalm 51:2

p.s. I bought Story that Barbie today. Let the reparation begin.

Will it hurt us to listen?

Will it hurt us to listen? 

Yes, it will. Our ego will bleed as our narrative is shushed while the voices of the angry, exhausted, desperate and heart-broken become louder than our story that insists that our upbringing, our people, our intentions did not contribute to this problem.

Will it hurt us to listen? 

Yes, it will. Listening inflicts pain- but it is a good pain. A pain that can carve out the place where pride has rested, firm and unwavering for God knows how long, leaving room for what is Holy to dwell in its place.

Will it hurt us to listen? 

Yes, it will. But not nearly as much as the pain of not being heard. Is there a worse pain than that?

Let us be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry. 

God's Dream

Yesterday, I held my son on my lap. I looked at his beautiful eyes- blue, with yellow around the pupils- and stroked his yellow hair. I kissed his pink cheeks. And never once did I worry about his falling victim to a crime like the murder of George Floyd. Such is the privilege of having a blue-eyed, pink-skinned son.

Last night, I saw a friend's post on Facebook. It said "I am the mother of an African American male. My son matters." My heart is breaking for the mothers in our country who hold their sons on their laps, look at their beautiful eyes, stroke their dark hair and kiss their soft cheeks and do worry that their boy will become a victim of the injustice that wickedly lies in wait- even after so many generations of hard-working, self-sacrificing civil rights warriors. My chest literally aches that she needs to write that on Facebook- and she does need to write it on Facebook. Her son matters.

So, last night, I read my yellow-haired boy a book called God's Dream. Because, I don't have to fear him becoming a victim. But I do have to try to make sure he doesn't become a villain. So, into his little boy mind, I am painting pictures with all the beautiful colors God intended for humankind. And I will, with God's help, do everything in my power to erase this curse called racism.

Black lives matter. Brown lives matter. And the Gospel is for everyone.