Black and White and Grey

I locked the car and set out across the parking lot toward the church where others gathered in groups, greeting each other with warm embraces and subdued conversation.  

Family members, I figured.  

Well, maybe not all family members, I reasoned, realizing it actually included quite a number of small groups of people. 

For a fleeting moment, I thought how nice it would feel to be welcomed so warmly by one of the groups milling about outside the church.  

But only for a moment. 

I knew my place.  I was an outsider.  


I had come at the request of my friend and high school classmate, LeRoy.  

Only we’d known him as Leroy, without the capital R, back then.

We’d been a very close class.  More than just classmates; we had been family.
  
We went to class together, worked together, ate together in the cafeteria, voluntarily gave up our lunch breaks to form prayer groups where we would pray together – for the school, for each other, for the country….  

So over the years, it’s not a surprise that so many of us still feel a closeness to each other.  Our friendship lasted long after the tearful graduation, and even the adventures of college.  We were close before the advent of Facebook.


So when LeRoy spent his bedside vigil at his mother’s side in her last days, many of us were there with him in spirit, lifting him up in prayer and as best we could.  We loved him, and we carried his burden in our hearts.

And thus I arrived at a church I'd never been to, sixty-five miles away from my home, and made my way, invisibly, through the crowded front sidewalk and foyer.

Inside, I stood in line and waited my turn to sign the guest book.  A solemn, older, well-dressed woman with a hat stood behind the counter with the guest book, handing out programs.  

She greeted most of the people by name, or at least if she didn’t use a name, smiled and asked politely, “Would you like a program?”

When I signed the guest book, she stood there, clasping the programs tightly, almost protectively, to her breast saying not a word. 

I stood for a moment, caught somewhat off guard in the resounding silence, feeling suddenly off balance and vulnerable.  

She looked at me intently from behind the counter between us, and then just stood there staring off over my shoulder as though I wasn't there.
  

Awkwardly, I reached down to pick up a program from the stack between us on the counter top.  

But when I glanced at it, my confusion turned to embarrassment.  It wasn’t a program at all, but instead, a brochure for the mortuary.

“That’s for the mortuary,” the woman with the hat said, finally looking down her nose at me.  

She then turned, reaching around me, and offered one of her precious programs to the person who had been behind me in the guest book line.

I put the mortuary advertisement back on its stack and politely waited until the woman with the hat had finished her transaction with the person after me and apologetically asked if I might have a program as the next person in line wrote their address in the guest book.

The woman with the hat again held the programs close to her chest for a moment as though trying to make a decision, then very deliberately took one from the top of her stack and reluctantly handed it to me.  


I thanked her and she gave me a mechanical smile and nodded ever so slightly and then greeted the next signer of the book by name and handed her a program, commenting on her beautiful dress.

I walked into the sanctuary and stood quietly just inside the door, taking in the room – the area, the lighting… 

I looked across the wide space, deciding what angles would make good photos.  
I wanted to get a few photos before people came in and the service began.  








I had promised to take some photos for LeRoy to commemorate the day.

I stood in the back, northwest corner of the sanctuary behind the chest-high sound booth, where I was out of the way and not really noticeable from anywhere unless someone was looking backward from their place in the church.  

I could use the wooden railing of the booth as a level support for the camera in lieu of a tripod.

I was quietly caught up in catching the light and the lofty rafters when I noticed another photographer, a church member by the looks of him, had taken my lead and come over to my corner of the church and was mimicking my moves and catching some of my angles as well.

Just then, a middle-aged man in a suit approached me, cleared his throat to get my attention and said, “I see you are taking pictures.”

“Yes,” I said, giving him a brief smile before turning back to my camera.  

"There's lovely light in here."


He was the first person in twenty minutes who had spoken to me, other than the lady who didn’t want to part with the program.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“You mean taking pictures?” I asked.  


“Is it a problem, I mean, taking pictures in the church?” I asked, looking over at the other photographer standing not five feet away from me. 

I had never considered that there might be some problem with taking photos in the church, and I would be very quick to apologize had I stepped on some toes. 





But, he adjusted his tie authoritatively and said, “No.  I mean what are you here for?”

“I’m here for the funeral,” I said, somewhat surprised and confused.

I looked around the church, the pews that were now slowly beginning to fill.  Other faces had turned, some close by, some farther off, and many whispered quietly.  


Apparently Mr. Suit was not the only curious one.  

Then I noticed something that hadn't dawned on me earlier - in the flash of a moment before Mr. Suit continued - there was not another Caucasian person in the entire building.

"Why?


Who are you?” Mr. Suit challenged my authority to be here at the funeral of Mrs. Baker.



Are you serious?  We’re really going to go there? 

This really is what this is all about?  

It wasn’t my imagination.  


The being ignored at the door…  


The not being offered a program…  


And now the “Why are you standing in my church, white girl?”

Up until this moment, it didn’t occur to me that I was the outsider because I was the white girl.  

I’d been that girl before.  


I’d been beaten up and terrorized as a child in the school yard for being the only white girl.  


I knew all about being the outsider who is disliked, despised, beaten up, and shunned because of the color of my skin.

I knew I was the outsider when I came to this funeral.  I knew that I wouldn’t know anyone here but LeRoy.  But it never occurred to me that they would be offended by my being an outsider in their midst! 

It never occurred to me that I would be white and they would be black.  It never occurred to me in a million years.  

I guess I am just too long at this life’s journey.  I guess that after growing up in the islands, and then living so many decades in Southern California, I just don’t really ‘see’ people any more.  I guess I just forget that people have colors.  To me, they all look the same.

But for that moment, it all came back.  For just a moment I remembered the girl who had been so mistreated and beaten and even bloodied for the color of her skin and her pale green eyes.  For an instant my indignant anger flared. 

But just for an instant.  For a millisecond I wanted to lash out at this confrontational man.  But I took a breath. Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do….

I held my tongue for a moment.
  
Long enough to pray for patience and understanding, and then I replied, “I’m an old friend of LeRoy Baker’s.  He asked me to be here.”

I’ve always hated name-droppers. 

But this once, I felt it necessary to be one.  

I just didn’t realize what a name-dropper I was being.

Mr. Suit literally stepped back and put his hands up, momentarily, in a "hands off" pose before telling me that no, it was fine; I could take as many pictures as I wanted if I was a friend of LeRoy's. Then he turned and walked away.

As I sat through the more than three-hour-long funeral, I learned that LeRoy Baker was the only child of an amazing man and woman.  They adopted him when they were in their forties - an amazing couple who devoted their entire life to the church and evangelistic efforts.

By the end of the nearly four-hour experience, I felt a longing for Peggy Baker.  I felt so cheated that I had not known this amazing woman in life, but felt blessed to have at least met her, in death, on this day.

Then one pastor got up and reminded us all how far ‘we’ had come; how far the church of today had come from the church that Sister Baker started out serving seventy-plus years ago.  

The church that was not always so accepting of her at times – back when blacks were openly persecuted for the color of her skin.

I let my mind travel back through the painful years of the civil rights movement and my heart ached for Ms. Peggy.  

Then I saw the chilly look of the woman clasping the programs to her bosom, and heard the persistent grilling of the middle aged man in the suit.

How would the beautiful, warm-hearted Mrs. Peggy Baker feel to see a white stranger within the walls of the church she had helped build treated like an intrusive gnat?

And for that matter, did Mrs. Program and Mr. Suit even know what they looked like in the mirror?
  
I doubt it.  


I am sure they both think of themselves as good, God-fearing, loving Christians who serve the Lord, and doubt that either realizes they came off as anything less.


Sometimes we all are so busy being important that we forget to be compassionate and kind.  I would like to think Ms. Baker would have been the type to have welcomed me warmly and invited me into her church.


In fact, it wasn't until just now, re-reading this that the comparison came to me.  And forgive me, LeRoy, but it seemed so fitting.

I can't help but compare my coming to the church to honor Mrs. Baker to a Christian coming to the church to meet God.  

So often they are put off by the flaws of human Christians (who maybe don't share their programs freely enough or don't welcome strangers with their cameras.)  

But all they need to do is to say, "I am here because the Son invited me."  


That is a name that is ALWAYS worth dropping.

But churches aside, I dare to venture a wager that many of us might not recognize the real us we would see if we were to glimpse ourselves in the mirror of honest reality.  


So often, the person we think we are gets lost in the persona we portray to the world.


We may think we are great, friendly people, but we get so stressed and busy that we get a little more prickly on the outside than we realize.
   

We might get so caught up in trying to get things perfect that we snap at our loved ones in our frustration.  Or so busy with what we are doing we don’t make time for our loved ones at all!




It's not always so intentional and clear as black and white, but sometimes smudges of grey.

This week's blog is dedicated to thinking twice, and acting once.

God Is the Glue

(This is not my words, but the words of an anonymous physician quoted to me in an email.  But the message is both beautiful and incredible so I wanted to share.)

A couple of days ago I was running (I use that term very  loosely) on my treadmill, watching a DVD sermon by Louie Giglio. And  I was BLOWN AWAY!  I want to share what I learned. But I fear  not being able to convey it as well as I want. I will share anyway.

He (Louie) was talking about how inconceivably BIG our God is, how He spoke the universe into being, how He breathes stars out of His mouth  that are huge raging balls of fire  Etc. Etc.

Then He went on to  speak of how this star-breathing, universe creating God ALSO knitted  our human bodies together with amazing detail and wonder.

At this point  I am LOVING it (fascinating from a medical standpoint, you know.)

And  I was remembering how I was constantly amazed during medical school as  I learned more and more about God’s handiwork.  I remember so many times  thinking. “How can ANYONE deny that a Creator did all of this???”

Louie went on to talk about how we can trust that the God who created  all this, also has the power to hold it all together when things seem  to be falling apart. How our loving Creator is also our sustainer.

And then I lost my breath. And it wasn’t because I was running my treadmill, either!!!  It was because he started talking about laminin. I knew  about laminin.

Here is how Wikipedia describes  them: ‘Laminins are a family of proteins that are an integral part of  the structural scaffolding of basement membranes in almost every animal  tissue.’

You see, Laminins are what hold us together, LITERALLY.  They are cell adhesion molecules.  They are the glue.

They are what holds one cell of our  bodies to the next cell. Without them, we would literally fall apart.  And I knew all this already. But what I didn’t know is what they LOOKED LIKE.

But now I do.  And I have thought about it a thousand times since (already). Here is what the structure of laminin looks like, AND  THIS IS NOT a ‘Christian portrayal’ of it. If you look up laminin in  any scientific/medical piece of literature, this is what you will see.

Now tell me that our God is not the coolest!!!  Amazing.  

The glue that holds us together…. ALL  of us…. Is in the shape of the cross.  Immediately,  Colossians 1:15-17 comes to mind.

            ‘He is the  image of the invisible God, the firstborn over all creation.   For by him all things were created; things in heaven and  on earth, visible And invisible, whether thrones or powers or rulers or Authorities;     All things were created by him and for him.   He is before all things, and in him All things HOLD  TOGETHER.’

 
                                               Colossians 1:15-17

Call me crazy. I just think that is very, very, very  cool. 

Thousands of years before the world knew anything about laminin, Paul  penned those words. And now we see that from a very LITERAL standpoint, we are held together one cell to another by the cross. 

You would never in a quad- rillion years convince me that is anything other  than the mark of a Creator who knew EXACTLY what laminin ‘glue’ would  look like long before Adam breathed his first breath.

And you will find the video of Louie Giglio on laminin here, courtesy of youtube.

It's Never Too Late To Come Home

In all of the hustle and bustle of the week, I could not for the life of me come up with today's blog. 

I had a couple of good thoughts, but they got carried away before I could get them down on paper.

And then this morning on Facebook I saw it.  

A very short story that just touched the very core of my soul as I have so often in my younger years felt the longing for a place to call home.

From the HuffingtonPost.com:

Jennifer Noble's Cat, Scrub, Returns Home Five Years After Hurricane Katrina

BILOXI, Miss. — Five years after wandering away in Hurricane Katrina's aftermath, a gray and white cat named Scrub has been reunited with his Mississippi family.

The Humane Society of South Miss- issippi says Scrub was identified by an implanted microchip. 

The 7-year-old cat was brought to the shelter by a Gulfport woman who'd fed him as a stray the past couple of months but worried about his safety during a cold snap.

Scrub's owner, Jennifer Noble, tells The Sun Herald newspaper that she was skeptical at first when she received a call from the shelter. 

But by the end of the first night back, Scrub had snuggled in bed with one of her boys.

The woman who'd been feeding him lives about 15 miles away. Noble says Scrub is in excellent condition.

If cat years are anything like dog years, that poor, sweet cat has been wandering 35 years looking for home!

When I read this story, I instantly heard in the back of my mind the old hymn from my days of boarding school: 

Softly and Tenderly, Jesus Is Calling 

Softly and tenderly 
Jesus is calling - 
Calling for you 
and for me;
Patiently Jesus is waiting and watching - 
Watching for you and for me!

Come home!  
Come home!
Ye who are weary, 
come home!
Earnestly, tenderly, 
Jesus is calling; 
Calling, 'O sinner come home!'

Why should we tarry 
when Jesus is pleading - 
Pleading for you 
and for me?
Why should we linger 
and heed not His mercies;
Mercies for you and for me?

Come home!  
Come home!
Ye who are weary, 
come home!
Earnestly, tenderly, 
Jesus is calling; 
Calling, 'O sinner come home!'

*******

What better time then at Christmas to ponder these words and think of Jesus giving up the sweetness of heaven to come to this broken down world to make it possible for us to all find our way home?