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Dona Nobis Pacem ~
Hold The Light
The year was 1968. Martin Luther King, Jr. and Robert F. Kennedy had been slain. Our country was in turmoil. The controversial war in Vietnam polarized our politics and our hearts. Richard Milhous Nixon was about to become the 37th President of the United States.
I was about to begin my education.
It started at the back door.
A knock.
"Come on in, Joe!" Papa exclaimed with a laugh. "And Joe, come around to the front door. I'll let you in." In some areas of the south in the sixties, visiting black men in small town USA, still did not approach the front door of a white man's residence. Fifty-six years later, we've made progress...but there is much work to do.
I do not know the direction my Grandfather's politics would have taken had he lived to see this election, but I can promise you one thing: the candidate's social status, the color of his skin, his religious affiliation, political slant, or the cost of his shoes would not have mattered. Papa's welcomes were equally sincere and easily given.
The man needed a job. He couldn't feed his family. I heard low whispers from the living room and shuffling of money. My grandmother brought coffee and cake; then the front door shut. Lesson one duly noted.
At my grandfather's wake, literally half the town showed up. There was a "colored" funeral home and "white" funeral home. It was out of the ordinary for blacks to visit the dead on the other side of the tracks.
But visit they did.
I heard stories I'd never heard.
"One day at work, your Papa noticed my feet were almost bare.
He gave me his shoes."
" He helped me and my family keep our home."
"He brought groceries to our house and in the winter he kept our furnace lit."
"He paid my telephone bill and brought toys for Christmas."
"He bought school clothes for my kids."
Apparently, he'd been sneaking around with blessing baskets for years. Then I started to remember those strange quiet back door whispers, "coincidental" meetings on the sidewalk, times when my grandmother had to suddenly whip up a chocolate cake, and rides in his station wagon to places he never talked about. "Stay here, Sis. I'll be right back," he'd say.
I always wondered what those porch conversations were about. Now I know.
I always wondered what those porch conversations were about. Now I know.
He was the bridge builder. And the door opener.
And the example of moral courage in my life.
He was my light holder
Today, when I visit his double-hearted spirit in the cemetery, I'm reminded of this photo. When I developed the picture long ago, my shadow had fallen across the stone. It looks as though we are perfectly in sync - still. Now, I choose to let my shadow fall upon his and allow his to fall upon mine. With whom do you align? Choose carefully.
It started me thinking how my time has eerily overlapped his time - a slice of American history that was shameful in so many respects - the abundance of ignorance, the quest for power, were just background noise to the voices that truly mattered...those that marched and voted and wrote policy.
What it boils down to is the right of all persons to be treated with dignity and respect.
Those voices still speak in us.
Collectively, we are more than a stump speech and a soundbite.
The voices of our time matter too.
Unrest and violence prevailed in 1968.
Unrest and violence still thunder in 2024.
Let it deliver and emancipate like Peter's shadow in the Book of Acts.
Let it heal people. Let it love people.
That's what light does.
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