“I’d love to change the world, but I don’t know what to do.”-Ten Years After

Of all the terrible images from Charlottesville, Virginia this weekend, this is the one that bothered me most. I look at the young, handsome faces, contorted with rage, lips forever captured spewing hate, and try to see in them the little boys they must have been. As the Mother of sons, I can almost always see in men’s faces the ghost of the boys they were, and I start to see it now. I picture gap toothed smiles, and cowlicks and the peculiar beauty that little boys have. And I wonder how they ever came to this dreadful place, and if their Mothers grieve for the boys they were? Are they proud? Are they crushed? Did they build them into this, brick by brick, or watch helplessly as the tide swept them away. And as I did,  I remembered another Mother’s son from long ago.

James was a boy in my son’s Kindergarten class. On the day of meet and greet we had been asked to bring a picture of our child for the “Getting to Know You Wall”. I stood and looked at picture after picture of smiling faces, obviously taken with love and pride. And then I came to the picture of James. Rather, it was a picture of someone else and James just happened to be in it, in the corner, almost out of the picture. It was all he could find to bring. Something about it troubled my spirit and I began to notice James. He was a beautiful child, with a sweet smile. But he was usually unkempt, his hair always a mess. Not little boy messy, uncared for messy. He was frequently late, and always dropped off, never walked in. The first time I visited the class I noticed that his pants were on backwards. It would be comical except for the fact that he made it all the way to school without anyone even noticing.

Another time, on a field trip to the zoo, I bent to tie his shoe and realized that his shoes were too small. As in two sizes too small. That was the reason he walked so slow and fell behind. The teacher confided to me that he hadn’t brought the money for the field trip, so she paid for him to go. She just couldn’t let him be the only one who didn’t get to go. The next day I sent a pair of new shoes with my son, and from then on when I sent money for my child’s trips and parties I sent it for James too. He was shy and quiet, but affectionate. He responded to attention and kind words like a flower opening up. I never saw any sign that he was physically abused, but every sign that he was neglected. He lived his life present but unnoticed, unimportant, invisible, a spectator in the lives of others. And surely the certain knowledge that you don’t matter feels like blows.  James left our school after the next year and I have never heard another word about him.  I still pray for him every time I think of him, and wonder what became of him.

I wonder if the first time he felt loved and accepted, it was by a gang.

I wonder if the first time the pain stopped it was because of a drug or a drink.

I wonder if the first adult that took notice of him, that he could look up to, indoctrinated him with some ideology of Us vs. Them, and provided an outlet for the rage built up over a lifetime. Showed him how to feed the bad wolf. Used his wounds for their own agenda.

He would have been ripe for all of it.

Oh, I hope I am wrong. I hope instead that he met angels dressed in skin along the way. I hope God sent him people to encourage him, to love him, to lead him. To show him how to feed the good wolf. All these many years I have prayed these things for him every time I think of him.

But if that didn’t happen, I can see how the harshness and indifference of his life could turn that sweet smile into a mask of rage…and underneath rage, pain. How he might find himself in a crowd with a torch, hating people he doesn’t even know. I hope I’m wrong.

The point is, no one is born full of hate, they have to be taught. I can’t do a single thing about Charlottesville, Virginia except go on the record saying it’s wrong, and that they don’t speak for me. And pray. And I can look around me and see what is within my power to affect. What are the needs  in my circle of influence? What is my Divine assignment? I can armor up and head out into the mission field of my life. I can grow where I am planted until the day that God calls me home.

I know one day all things will be made right, and we will understand all that is beyond us now. I cling to that hope. But until then, I will be on lookout  for my next James.

(This post originally appeared as  a Facebook post on 7/8/16 in response to a dreadful week in America. In a three day stretch between 7/5/16-7/7/16, Alton Sterling, a black man, was shot and killed by two white police officers in Baton Rouge, La. ,Philando Castile, a black man, was shot four times in his car by a white police officer during a traffic stop. The incident was recorded and live streamed by his girlfriend who was also in the car, and in Dallas, Tx. Micah Johnson shot and killed five police officers during what had been a peaceful protest of the above events. In miserable irony, the day after this was posted the events of this weekend in Charlottesville, Va. Began.)

  It’s been a tough week for America. I saw a lot of sad things in the ether today. But, the worst for me were posts on Facebook from girls, young women really, in my son’s friend group, expressing their wrenching sadness, confusion and anger under “feeling hopeless”.

  They are smart, funny, curious, joyful young women, passionate about social justice and about life. I’ve known them all their lives. I’ve enjoyed watching them navigate the world alongside my sons. I can’t wait to see what they are going to be. The thought that these bright and beautiful people feel hopeless about our world at seventeen made me saddest of all. It stayed with me the rest of the day, and I have something to say.

To the Hopeless Girls:

This is hard , but I need you to do me a favor. I need you to have hope. I need you not to give up on this old world. If it is ever going to change it’ll be because of people like you, people who care, who love, people who notice and speak up when things are unfair.

  I need you to gather all your strength and not become cynical or hard, to have a heart that can take being broken again and again. I need you to get back up and keep marching time and time again. I need you to use all your passion and all your gifts to pour love into this world, and to never, never, never give up on people. They can be so ugly sometimes, but it’s usually because they’re broken in some way. Someone taught them how to hate, you can show them how to love, or at least what it looks like. 

It’s the darkest rooms that need a flashlight. Your light is stronger than the dark. Never forget that.

I know it’s a lot that I, that we are asking of you, of my sons, of your generation…but we’re counting on you.

“Everyone thinks forgiveness is a lovely idea until he has something to forgive.”-C.S. Lewis

Some Thoughts on Forgiveness:
One Sunday, I sat in my Freedom small group and listened as we discussed the chapter on Forgiveness. The sharing was brave and searing; of abandonment, of devastating acts done to the defenseless, of backs laid open by the lash of cruel words. As we shared, an image began to form in my mind from long ago. When my sons were small, every year their elementary school would have a “Spring Fling”. We would weave through a gauntlet of booths designed to take your money and give you schlock; a ring toss to win a 2 liter drink, a cake walk, a dart game to win a goldfish in a bowl.
Inevitably, as the night wore on, it would start. They would run up to me, their hair plastered to their foreheads with sweat, flushed cheeks, candy stained mouths, and say:
“Here Mama, hold this!” “Here Mama, hold that!”
And by the end of the night I would be laden with all of their junk. I’d roll my eyes, and do a little tongue-in-cheek grumbling, but really I didn’t mind. I loved to watch them free their hands and run off to play, carefree and laughing.
And that’s when it came to me, that we could do that too. We could just decide that we didn’t want to carry it anymore. We could just choose to give our hurts to God to hold.
“Here Daddy, hold this!” “Here Daddy, hold that!”
It doesn’t mean that its right what they did, that its right what they said, but we could just let Him hold it for us, so we could move on. We could just let Him decide what to do with it, that stale pound cake, that flat 2 liter drink, that goldfish that will be dead in the morning.
And He won’t even really mind holding those things for us, those things that are binding our hands and weighing us down. Because like any good parent He enjoys watching His children enjoy their lives. And then our hands would be free…and we could just go out and play.