We Run with Maud
"Right now, pretty much everyone in your life thinks you're super cute," I told him, "but as you grow up and get older you're going to meet people who don't like you just because of the color of your skin."
With a look of disbelief, he replied, "really?"
And my heart broke when I answered him, "Yes, son. Really."
They thought we were going on a family walk, a daily ritual during this quarantine, but before we left I gathered them together to tell them that today we'd be going for longer than usual, 2.23 miles to be exact. And I explained why.
I told them about Ahmaud Arbery, how he was out jogging in his neighborhood when two men confronted him, supposedly suspecting he might be the perpetrator of some unconfirmed burglaries, and then shot and killed him. I explained that the only reasons they had for their supposed suspicion was that he was black and running through what they viewed as their neighborhood, not considering it might be his as well.
I went on to reveal that, tragically, this isn't anything new. It's not only a part of our current society, but the history of our state, of my home state, of our country, and of our world. I did my best to define racism for them, a word he was completely unfamiliar with, a privilege of experience most likely because he has white parents and one that most likely has been too long in being rectified.
This is not to say he's never experienced racism. He has, both from strangers and even those close to him or our family. It's just that I'm not sure how aware of it he's been, or at least I haven't been able to ever get him to acknowledge his awareness. But I've been aware, and I've done my best to shield him from it while the dread of knowing I can't for long builds within me. And even the fact that I can shield him, or more likely that I'm naive enough to think I can shield him, is a benefit of my white privilege.
I know there are people out there, maybe even some reading this, who think I shouldn't be parenting a black boy, that I'm not qualified to do so simply because I'm white. On my worst days, I agree with them. Not because of anything having specifically to do with my son, but because I am aware of the responsibility I have to prepare him for this world, and I'm also aware of how I have experienced this world differently because of the color of my skin. That's just a fact.
However, I believe 100% that the God of the universe brought us together as a family. My daughter is a true miracle, and my son is a blessing beyond measure. I don't think God gave them to me because of how great of a father I'd be. Believe me, though I try as hard as I possible can, I'm often not that great. But God meets me in my weakness and ignorance and inexperience, and gives the strength and wisdom and insight I need. I have to trust that.
So, I'm eternally grateful it's not left up to me alone. I'm thankful for other godly men in his life and am especially thankful for the ones whose skin color more closely resembles his than mine. I'm thankful for older young men of color who give him attention and encourage him and trade Pokemon cards and beyblades with him.
He runs and walks and plays in our neighborhood every day without fear or concern, and we've never experienced anything from our neighbors but friendliness and kindness toward him. But I fear the reality this will not always be the case with everyone in every neighborhood where he ever lives.
So, as we did our 2.23 miles today, I prayed for God's comfort for the family of Ahmaud Arbery. I prayed for God's justice for His murders. I prayed for God's grace to help me help him. And I prayed for God's love to grow in him and all those around him to transform us all so we are known for our love for our neighbors infinitely more than our hate for anyone we see as other.
This day and this act is supposed to be about Ahmaud Arbery, and I don't mean to try to turn it into something about me or my son, but I can't help but see a vision of my son in 20 years when I look at Ahmaud's photo, and for that reason, his killing is deeply personal to me.
This has to stop.
"Amen. Come, Lord Jesus."