Forgive me

 

It is hard not to become enraged when so many choose to ignore our home.  If someone came into my house and spoke and acted without any sense of decorum, choosing to undo things that we have labored to create, a garden, art, a quiet place to sit and read, a conversation shared with manners and with peace, how would any of us respond? 

I pray for the man.  I do.  But his behavior and the attitudes and actions of his supporters in response to his illogical, dangerous, and just plain rude rantings and policies, make it hard to allow any sort of peace to rule my prayers.  He is polluting my home.  So my prayers for him tend to end with prayers of confession.

I know I shouldn’t throw rocks.  But when I was a child, people threw rocks through our windows because my parents stood for integrated neighborhoods.  The notes attached were awful, lies that threatened and condemned the people who chose to stand for justice and reconciliation.  My family told me to be proud and confident that we stood with prophets.  But I was angry and hurt and afraid.

Now I feel that way again. 

And I remember what my father told me over breakfast before I went to school the next morning.  “Others will know of this.  Some may say things, ugly things to you.  Witness to the truth.  Keep your head up.  They are bullies who live in fear.  They throw stones.  We’ve got better things to do.” 

Martin Luther King said, “The arc of history is long, but it bends toward justice.”

I’ll remember my father’s courage and wise words.  I’ll remember prophets like Rev. King.  But once in a while, I get pissed off.  Forgive my language and my rage.