I did not come back to Nebraska from Antarctica for this foolishness.
But since I’m here, I choose to lift my voice. What we are feeling right now is the weight of injustice.
The weight of injustice is so heavy that it snatches lives. It suffocates them. It crushes them. It annihilates them. And then–and then it expects witnesses to walk away like nothing even happened.
The weight of injustice prioritizes property and possessions over people.
The weight of injustice works relentlessly to drown out the wails of the innocent with the whispers of the entitled.
The weight of injustice is so heavy, that it leans its weight into minds and convinces people that wrong is right and right is wrong.
To think that there are no complexities in our complexions is a completely ignorant stance. The lives of Black people are so valuable that cities shut down, curfews are created, stores are closed early, and the National Guard is activated. Why? Because Black lives matter that much. Covid-19 restrictions pale in comparison to the mandates that are currently being constructed and created because of how much Black lives matter.
Monuments can be reconstructed, but lives can never be resurrected.
And while I wish all ignorance, stupidity, and bigotry could be wiped away with a swipe and delete, it can’t. It’s not that simple. And being in a TWO parent home never saved me from ONE racist.
The weight of injustice begs us to lift every voice and SCREAM.
SCREAM for what is right. SCREAM for what is just. SCREAM for what is holy. And what is holy is a life–a human being. My four year old niece SCREAMED “He’s a human!” when she looked at my sister’s phone and saw George Floyd, a Black man, being crushed by a White man who was assigned to protect and serve.
The weight of injustice reminds us that these passionate moves leave permanent marks. And the mark that was made against George Floyd and most recently in Nebraska, James Scurlock, is a mark that will never fade.
So where do we go from here? Well, we must lose the weight. We must drop it. We must repent. We must kneel. We must surrender. And by WE, I mean White executives, White educators, White enforcers, White evangelicals, White editors, White elected officials, White environmentalists, White electricians, White engineers, White evangelists, Whites entitled, Whites entirely, and of course, the rest of us too.
A race war truly isn’t necessary. Repentance is. Justice is.
Our hearts must break with what breaks God’s heart.
Conviction can convert a racist to rally together for justice.
Conviction can turn a bigot into a brother.
It can turn an adversary into an ally.
And that–THAT is the power of the Holy Ghost. It can convict, change, and transform hearts. And for the record, Jesus wasn’t about weak stuff. He dealt with the tough stuff–and mastered it.
So we, too, have something to master: our hearts and homes must get right.
People are suffering right now from a viral disease. We have medical professionals and first responders continuing to help those desperately trying to survive. The painful irony is that those suffering with COVID-19 are also saying, “I CAN’T BREATHE.”
Perhaps if we choose to come together as a human race, the weight of injustice will be no more. Perhaps I’m dreaming. But maybe, just maybe YOU PEOPLE will be the ones who change the world for the good.
“I’m so lonely. You just don’t understand.”
Here’s the story: Four years ago it was Christmas 2014 in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. I began taking out my waist-length Beyoncé braids and finally had enough. I got my scissors and made a decision. This hair was about to be GONE.
In 2011 I did the same thing. I texted my sisters saying, “Y’all, I just took craft scissors and cut my hair.” They didn’t believe me. I sent them a pic and they all called me simultaneously.
Needless to say, my spirit lacked JOY. In a non-emotionally-sober moment, I snipped. And snipped. And the next thing I knew, it was all gone. And I loved it. Then I hated it. It didn’t feel like the 2011 cut. The same woman in 2011 paled in comparison to who stood before me.
But I GREW from it. I learned:
I’m a substitute teacher. I bounce around from school to school around my district and have yet to see more than three TEACHERS who look like me. I absolutely LOVE opportunities to ask my students this question:
Sure, I could substitute for both Omaha Public Schools, however I was raised in Papillion-La Vista School District. When I graduated with a class of 569 students, there were approximately 15 African-Americans. I never sat in a class with a Black teacher during my entire time in the district.
Let’s get back to the question.
I didn’t go to Africa on a missions trip. I went on vacation. First to Egypt and then to Kenya. Pictured here I’m in Malindi, Kenya.
It was in Nairobi where I (confession) smuggled avocados back to Saudi Arabia because they were massive and I simply couldn’t go back without them. I took two.
I do a test. I show them a picture and ask them where is this? It’s usually a picture of a dirt road or slum.
Who will tell them of the golf courses in between Malinda and Mombasa?
If you want to leave it to a substitute teacher to disseminate the information, I don’t mind. But I’m so glad to know that others are convicted about telling NEW stories too.
sevenby30 