A World Changer

This is my story, but this is not my story.  I only know an infinitely small piece of it. I haven't told this story before, because it wasn't mine to tell.  But now I am telling it on behalf of him, and on behalf of all of our kids, everywhere.

This needs to be everyone's story, because there is no such thing as other people's children.  @Momastery.

It was a cold winter night when four amazing children came to stay at my home.  They had a beautiful and amazing family of their own, but we had the opportunity to spend a few short weeks with them. Four beautiful souls climbed into my car   The oldest brother, a strong and towering teenager, was obviously the rock for his younger siblings.

The life and energy that exuded from these children was contagious.  Singing, dancing, laughing, yelling, fighting, and making up again was the song of our lives for those short weeks.

We had only this small space in time with these amazing and energetic kids.

Over a year later, my husband and I took our children on a ten day Florida vacation.  We had only been home for a few hours, when I read the news online.  "Gun violence".  "Murdered".  He had been murdered.

Murdered.

This young man, who ate at my dining room table, who sat beside me in church, who helped me bake Christmas cookies, was murdered.  Unprovoked, untargeted, unintentionally, yet so intentionally, murdered.

And just like that, injustice, racism, poverty, violence, and murder are a part of my story.  A very small part, but a part nonetheless.   My comfortable white life, and my Florida vacation were slapped in the face.  His blood was shed on a city street while I was building sandcastles with my children in Florida.

When he and his siblings were with us, his little brother commented on the whiteness of our church. "Why are there SO many white people here, Sarah? One, two, three, four."  He got to twenty and then stopped counting.  I had no good answer for him. Why are only white people showing up at our church?

We went to the funeral home to pay our respects.  We were the only white people, except for one or two others. Why are there SO many black people here? One, two, three, four.  I got to twenty and then stopped counting.  Why are only black people showing up for a young man killed by gun violence?

His little brother had felt being "other" at our church.  I had felt being "other" at the funeral home. The truth is, we are all other.  We are all different, we are all unique, we are all our own.  We are ALL OUR OWN.  ALL. OUR. OWN.  There is no such thing as other people's children, because they are all our own.   Our differences define us, but our differences are our sameness.  It just so happens that some peoples differences are celebrated, priveleged, and protected.  Some peoples differences are hushed, exploited, and even targeted.

I know virtually nothing about race issues, gun violence, or injustice, but I am listening.  My life until now has been blissfully ignorant, consumed in rural whiteness.  These issues were removed, were other, were not my life.  They didn't matter to me in a real way, until a child that sang in my shower, ate spaghetti at my table, and danced with my children, was MURDERED.  He was not my child, but he is all of our children.

Our comfortable lives are delicate and fragile.  There are children and families facing injustice just beyond our arms reach.  Just at our fingertips.  There is a very thin veil between our comfortable lives, and our children being murdered on the streets.  Very thin.  But maybe not thin enough; if we aren't seeing through it, than it isn't thin enough.

Can we take the time and effort to lift the veil?  It took the murder of a child who broke bread with me at dinner, who broke bread with me at communion in church, to see that injustice is real.  It is not "other".  Injustice is ours, yours, and mine.

I am floundering, I don't know what to do to honor this boy.  I don't know how to educate people about social injustice.  I don't know how to educate myself, except to look and listen.  I look at the space around me with his eyes.  I listen to the words around me with his ears.

I can only say that his face, his smile, his song and dance, are in my memory.  I cannot fathom the pain that his family is feeling.  He and his siblings opened my eyes. They are our children.  There is no other.  Yet there is still so much "other".  Our children are safe, comfortable, and protected.  Our children are vulnerable, targeted, and breaking.

What would you do to protect your child? What would you do to protect my children? What would you do to protect OUR children? All of them.

Would you listen with his ears and object to a racist joke that a friend tells?  Would you look with his eyes, and see that the representations around you are primarily white? Would you show up at a rally for justice? Would you step out of your comfort zone and be "other"?  Would you teach your children that racism and injustice are real, and help them combat it, so that my children, our children, don't feel "other"?

I can't stop thinking.  It's been several months since his death.  A child that was, albeit briefly, a part of my family has died at the hands of injustice.  He is ours, all of ours.  He was murdered. The only thing that I know how to do, is to show up.  I will show up in the city to visit his family.  I will show up at the cemetery to remember his life. I will continue to offer my futile condolences, to send messages saying "I'm thinking of you" and "What can I do to help?".   I will talk to my children about injustice,   I will teach them the best I know how.  I will look and listen, because he is all of ours.

I was 38 years old before I was slapped in the face by social injustice.  38.  I don't want my kids to be slapped in the face at 38 years old.  I want them to see, and hear, and feel now.  I want them to be world changers now.  I think that our comfort zones are some of the most dangerous places to be.  A boy with a smile that could light up a room, a boy that lit up MY ROOM, was murdered.

That matters to me.  Rest in peace, sweet boy. I will forever hear your voice singing "Today I don't feel like doing anything, I just want to lay in my bed."  I will hear you complaining about my cats keeping you awake at night.  I will see you putting together my Christmas train with my other children.  I will see you hugging your siblings.  I will hear you talking to your grandma.  I will smell the cologne.  I will remember your energy.  I will keep your smile, forever, in my heart.  You. Have changed me.  You made a difference.  You changed my world.  You give me the motivation to be a world changer.

The Purple House

My daughter and I drove up and down the city streets, carefully examining each house, on each side of the street, looking for a purple house.  "I KNOW my grandma lived in a purple house. It had purple bushes in the front. You have to see the football field first, and then you'll find it."

We found the park where she played, the train tracks that she walked, even the apartment that she once called home.  But no purple house.  The purple house remains an intangible memory in her little mind.  

This memory tethers her to her past.  

I went to the funeral home tonight for a few moments.  After offering my condolences and visiting, I sat down in a chair.  I tried to make conversation; when the conversation was done, I really just wanted to sit there, for a long time.  But I left, because, well-it is awkward to sit in a funeral home for the sake of memories.

Memories of funeral homes, hospital rooms, dinner tables, and family photos, tether me to my past. Times when everyone is there.  Present and accounted for, Sir.  Times when everyone shows up.  

I found myself sitting at the funeral home tonight, looking for my purple house.  I long for a tangible connection to those memories.

But we all go through life, largely untethered, left with memories, hopes, and dreams.   I search for my purple house every day, as my daughter searches for hers.  

The primal ache of being motherless resonates tonight.  Always searching for purple houses; searching for one last chance to feel, hear, smell, and breathe the past.  I always wonder what I would have done with one more moment, one more kiss, or one more word.

I think that all we can do, is to live in the moments we have.  Enjoy the purple house when you see it, keep it in your memory forever.  Our time is now.  Memories of purple houses tether us to our past, but they won't be found again.

Tonight, I look around, and I see MY house, in THIS moment.  My chaotic, multi-colored, sick, emotional, exhausted, exploding with love, house.  I am thankful for it, because it is mine, and it is amazing.  

What holds us back, and what keeps us where we are, are often one in the same: Purple Houses. Purple houses and memories tether us to our past; Purple houses and memories tether us to our present.  What needs to happen to move us forward? I have no clue, except to breathe in right now; I breathe in my house, my home, and I know my future is purple.