How could I have been so blind?
This week I had two heart-rendingly difficult communications with friends who I admire and respect about the subject of racism in the United States. I’ll start with the second. My friend told me that she just felt hopeless. That she didn’t see an end. That she didn’t see a solution. That she had been so badly hurt by the members of the church that we both belong to and believe holds the truth that she couldn’t bring herself to attend anymore. This isn’t someone who is weak, uneducated, seeking power, or angry with people who are trying their best. This is someone who is strong, intelligent, educated, humble, and sincere. And she feels hopeless because she knows that in a month (or less), people like me will have moved on and stopped listening. How could I have been so blind to her pain? Especially when I consider myself a disciple of Christ, to whom this friend is every bit as valuable as myself?
Before I explain the other conversation, I have to say that this friend is practically a sister to me, and I consider her one of the closest friends that I’ve ever had. This despite the fact that we see differently on plenty of things, partly because of our different backgrounds: race, families, types of secondary schools, nationalities, interests, hobbies, profession, and even preferences of the size of town we like to live in. Don’t get me wrong, we have plenty in common, including gender, religion, alma mater and even major for our bachelor’s degrees. But we’re also different. And that’s beautiful. We’re not friends because of our differences nor despite them. Honestly, I don’t even know that we’re friends because of (or despite) our similarities. But she is my friend, and my sister. And despite the fact that she’s not even a citizen of this country, she knew far more about, and was getting more hurt by, the events of the past weeks and months (and centuries) of racial injustice and individual racism in this country that I was. That’s not okay.
I have delicately been avoiding picking a side, or speaking out, or getting too involved, because I felt like I didn’t know enough. But really, that’s not true. It’s because it didn’t hurt me enough. And that’s not okay. It’s not okay that I have been blind. It’s not okay that I didn’t choose to bear the burdens of my neighbor. It’s not okay that I haven’t educated myself as much as I could have. It’s not okay that I’ve been deaf. And blind. And dumb. Because I had a choice.
And I have a choice now. I can choose to forget. To rally once now, while it’s loud, and ignore it again later. I can choose to be blind and deaf. Or I can choose to care. And in a way, it is a hard choice. Because caring hurts. Caring involves carrying burdens. Caring means recognizing that I’ve failed before, and realizing that I’ll probably fail again. Caring means learning and listening in humility. Caring means changing. Caring...means repenting. And that’s hard. But that’s what I choose. And that is what I will continue to choose. Because being a sister means loving like one.
Before I explain the other conversation, I have to say that this friend is practically a sister to me, and I consider her one of the closest friends that I’ve ever had. This despite the fact that we see differently on plenty of things, partly because of our different backgrounds: race, families, types of secondary schools, nationalities, interests, hobbies, profession, and even preferences of the size of town we like to live in. Don’t get me wrong, we have plenty in common, including gender, religion, alma mater and even major for our bachelor’s degrees. But we’re also different. And that’s beautiful. We’re not friends because of our differences nor despite them. Honestly, I don’t even know that we’re friends because of (or despite) our similarities. But she is my friend, and my sister. And despite the fact that she’s not even a citizen of this country, she knew far more about, and was getting more hurt by, the events of the past weeks and months (and centuries) of racial injustice and individual racism in this country that I was. That’s not okay.
I have delicately been avoiding picking a side, or speaking out, or getting too involved, because I felt like I didn’t know enough. But really, that’s not true. It’s because it didn’t hurt me enough. And that’s not okay. It’s not okay that I have been blind. It’s not okay that I didn’t choose to bear the burdens of my neighbor. It’s not okay that I haven’t educated myself as much as I could have. It’s not okay that I’ve been deaf. And blind. And dumb. Because I had a choice.
And I have a choice now. I can choose to forget. To rally once now, while it’s loud, and ignore it again later. I can choose to be blind and deaf. Or I can choose to care. And in a way, it is a hard choice. Because caring hurts. Caring involves carrying burdens. Caring means recognizing that I’ve failed before, and realizing that I’ll probably fail again. Caring means learning and listening in humility. Caring means changing. Caring...means repenting. And that’s hard. But that’s what I choose. And that is what I will continue to choose. Because being a sister means loving like one.
P.S. I would highly recommend watching The 13th, the documentary on Netflix. I welcome any other recommendations.
Just Mercy, on amazon prime or youtube
ReplyDeleteWell said, Jenny.
ReplyDeleteThumbs uuup!
ReplyDeleteIt’s too easy to ignore issues like this when you aren’t the one feeling the pain. I’m grateful for courageous people sharing their experiences to help others gain perspective.