The Coronavirus Era & The Weight of No Goodbyes

We stepped out of the hospice facility at every bit of 11:30 PM on that Thursday night.

As we gazed at the lights shining from the nearest towering hotel, my sister and I noted that the breeze felt like a memory with which we were well acquainted; reminiscent of nights from family beach trips in what could only be described as another lifetime, some thirteen odd years ago.

That's where some of our fondest memories of her would always rest--quietly sitting next to the pool wearing a smile and watching her nieces and nephews in waterplay shenanigans, reclined in a chair on the sand, relaxing, reading, drinking white wine of the chilled variety.

As we parted ways that night, we didn't think we would encounter Aunt Dana again...not this side of heaven, anyway. But her nurse let me know early the next morning she had made it through the night. Blair and I headed back to the parking lot we'd left less than twelve hours prior.

We talked to her peacefully resting frame, fielded questions from nurses and family members, and stood as vessels of telephone farewells from those who knew and loved her most.

As early afternoon began making its way toward evening, and after verifying that she was resting comfortably, we stepped away to grab a bite. We ate; we laughed. I dogged Blair for spilling ketchup on her shirt. We finished up and made the trek back assuming we were in for hours of more sitting and waiting.

Aunt Dana always did her own thing, so I guess I shouldn't have been as surprised as I was when I barely stepped into the room and could tell she was no longer there. Her body was, of course, but not her spirit. The room was not filled the same way it was when we left. Even the air was different. That's how remarkable she was. We called everyone who needed called, stuck around for logistical purposes, and then eventually parted ways again as the day drew to a close. I will never know why she left when she did that day--during the 15 minutes we were away from her--but I suspect it had everything to do with not wanting us to witness it, her exit from this life and entry into the next. After all, she never did want to upset or inconvenience anyone.

Flash forward 3 months, and I find myself on the other side of a non-goodbye--this time to one of my dearly beloved parishioners. Interestingly enough, Ms May reminded me a lot of my maternal grandmother, Dana's mom. Because of this similarity, I had a soft spot in my heart for her from the moment we met. She'd been wrought with a myriad of health issues in the past year or so. Her body just couldn't take any more. When they felt confident she had begun the process of transitioning, I called the hospital to see if I'd be allowed inside to see her. "I'm sorry, we're not allowing in visitors," the person on the other end of the phone replied. I hung up feeling stuck, grieved before she'd ever left for her eternal home. I could not do the one thing I was supposed to: be with her. After all the times she'd been there for me--to welcome me into her home, to tell me her stories, to send me a card in the mail, to give a thoughtful gift to my son, to make me laugh, to let me know time and time again how loved I was by her. I can only hope she knew that truth in my heart for her as well. Less than twenty four hours later, I received the call letting me know she was gone.

I don't typically struggle with death--at least not in an all-consuming way. I hold a firm hope in that the end of our earthly life is not the end of our life in its entirety. I have hope that God restores us in full and that we will see each other again. But not being able to say goodbye puts just a bit of that sting back into death, which God's triumph over the grave in Jesus Christ removed.

I guess I share all this to say that--especially in light of this season wrought with illness and grief, of meanness and spite--I hope we will treasure and care for the lives of the living among us. Both of our loved ones and of strangers alike. Will we take the time to show them all our appreciation? Will we make the effort to be kind? Will we do whatever we possibly can to show our love to everyone and hopefully in doing so show, too, the love of the One who made us all? 

That Love that permeates and endures and perseveres over all suffering, both now and eventually...

With God's help, I sure hope and pray it will be so. Love all y'all.

Peace,

Pastor Mary Kate

When Playtime Reveals Prejudice

Jesus loves the little children,

all the children of the world.

Every color is good and right;

They are precious in God's sight.

Jesus loves the little children of the world. 

I heard him say the words, and I did a double-take at the back of his head in the bathtub, glancing at Bo to see if he, too, had heard it. His face communicated to me that I was not mistaken.

"You can't play with us because you're a different color," we heard our son say on behalf of two brightly colored cars to his black one. We watched as he maneuvered the brightly colored race car and tow truck to turn their backs on the black one leaving it alone in the corner of the tub's edge.

It caught us off-guard, and I remember us quickly, almost frantically murmur-whispering back and forth to each other: Do we say something? Where would he have learned this? Did we miss something in one of the videos he watches before bath time? I'm sure he just heard it at school, one of the kids not thinking about what they were saying...

But we couldn't take a chance that it was a one-time thing. So, there we sat for the next several minutes, asking him questions, trying to get an idea of where this kind of play had originated. 

We asked if the cars could be friends even though they were different colors. No.

We asked if the race car and tow truck were beautiful. Yes.

We asked if the police car was beautiful. No.

Before we got too far into the "why" of these hypotheses--being that we were conversing with a freshly turned three year old--we asked about our skin color instead: 

What color skin do we have? White. 

What color skin does [insert name of beloved teacher at school]? Black.

Is our skin beautiful? Yes.

Is her skin beautiful? No.

I almost wish someone had been recording this whole interaction between us three. Me sitting dumbfounded on the toilet, Bo sitting in the floor confused, Foster looking at us from his bathtub vantage point growing ashamed because he could tell we were unpleased with his answers to our questions [We assured him that we weren't upset with him AND that we needed to talk about the things he was saying because they weren't true. You'll see the way our conversation progressed toward the end of this post.].

We were perplexed because we think of ourselves as all-loving people--pastors or no. We have friends and mentors who span the various spectrums of diversity, and we are better for their friendship, teaching, and for their lives in general. We see and acknowledge the richness and value of who they are. Through them, the truth resounds for us that God did indeed create us all in God's image and that image transcends any barrier of difference the world seeks to self-impose upon humanity.

But as we talked with our son that night, we realized our privilege as white-skinned humans had allowed us to be unhurried in communicating these central ideals and theological groundings to him in ways he could begin to understand. These are aspects that we hope will one day provide a solid foundation for his own faith journey! And yet, we weren't overly concerned about communicating them to him because our lives are not personally impacted by racism and prejudice.

Here he was loving and being loved and taught by his Black teachers at school, these women for whom our family has given thanks to God over and over as they helped him learn to count and chased him around the playground and kept him safe from his life-threatening allergies. And SOMEHOW, we'd failed to use these beloved relationships to talk about skin color, about the ways God made us all, the way God made us all in God's image and made us all beautiful therein. Simultaneously, we failed to talk to him--in a way a three year old can begin to digest--about the ways in which white people often discredit and dehumanize our Black siblings because the world tells us again and again they are inferior. 

And because that lie does not affect us directly in our white skin, white people (including me and Bo) are guilty of allowing the realities of racism to fall from our purview.

That's what happened with our kid and if it hadn't been for that night in the bathtub, nothing about how we parent would be different today. I'm sure some of you will say, "He's too young to know anything about racism or prejudice!" But that sentence escaping his mouth that night was a clear foreshadowing for me of the direction he was headed.

And you know who's the first one to get away with being racist in this world we live in, don't you? 

A handsome, middle class white boy.

My son has a face that the world might say could launch 1,000 ships. He also has a face that allots him the privilege of getting away with being racist (and most other evils) and denying it for the rest of his life if given the chance. As his mother, I refuse to leave that up to chance.

So now, we frequently mention racism in our quiet time before bed. 

We routinely read stories with Black and Brown protagonists and we talk about their skin color and our skin color and about the richness and value in all of us, in all hues of complexions.

Nightly, we sing together the slightly adjusted lyrics to the popular hymn Jesus Loves the Little Children and when I ask him why we sing that song, he replies, "Because Jesus loves everybody...because God made all of us beautiful...so, we love everybody, too."

I may not be called to go to every racial equality protest. I may not be able to write meaningful teaching curriculum about antiracism. I may not sit at the table with some of the most gifted Black activists, preachers, and teachers. But I can learn from them. And I can allow the learning I glean to change the way I teach and preach--in my home, in my churches, in my everyday life. 

Our white children are not too young to begin hearing from us about how those with privilege and power--including us, their white parents--have benefitted and continue to benefit from the degradation and dehumanization of Black and Brown people. Our white children are not too young to hear from us about the realities of racism. 

No one but us is responsible for teaching our children about our divine connectedness to one another and the ways the world tirelessly seeks to sever those sacred ties. 

No one but us is responsible for teaching our children right from wrong as it pertains to human relationships that are intended to be firmly grounded in the love of God.

No one but us is responsible for teaching our children to incline their hearts and dedicate their lives to God's intent for justice and wholeness for ALL creation.

If this week has taught us nothing else, it has taught us that we must pay attention. We must do better. We have a JOB to do. We must raise the next generation to stand against what is evil and hold onto what is good in the sight of God. Because no one else is gonna do it for us.

No more excuses. It's what God expects of us, and with God, we believe all things are possible. 

Deep Peace,

Pastor Mary Kate