Hey guys. Let's get real today.
Given the current state of the world and the continuing conversation of racial inequality—I felt this story needed to be shared.
This story is one that resonated with me so deeply and has managed to remain so clearly in my mind since it occurred. I pray you see the beauty in it—even with a deeply saddening fog surrounding it.
2 years ago: July 5, 2018
I begrudgingly took a job at home that summer after expecting to remain in my college town. But it would seem, like always, God had bigger and better plans.
I was working a day camp for elementary age children. It was most definitely a job that was never boring and continually taught me more than I ever thought it would.
This particular day—the kids had a field trip. It was right after a holiday so we knew the kids would be chaotic at best. Field trip days were always interesting by themselves because you knew that keeping track of the kids would take a little more effort than normal.
This day we went to the Indiana State Museum. Museums have always been my first love, but normally the kids practically ran through them so I knew I’d get little to no time to look at things myself. Wow, was I ever wrong.
Because we live in Indiana, there is an ugly, unfortunate history of racism. So yes, in our state museum there is a full Ku Klux Klan robe on display.
This was something I had remembered from visiting a few years before. It was also something I remembered as being deeply uncomfortable to be face to face with. But it took on new meaning when I saw a little black girl with her arms crossed behind the group and far away from the entrance of the entire exhibit.
I sent the rest of my group of children forward with another leader and went back to talk with the motionless little girl. When I went up to her, before I could even say anything, she looked me dead in the eye and said: “I’m not going to look at it. I don’t even want to go past it.”
This girl was stubborn. She had been all summer. I knew what she said—she meant. So, I told her we could go around another way if that made her more comfortable. But she still didn’t move.
“People that wore those were awful to people that look like me”
At this point, I was trying not to cry because I had to say “you’re right” to a 9-year-old.
“I know. I’m sorry. I wish I could change that.”
What else can you say? She was right. Instead I just sat with her. She grabbed my hand and squeezed it hard. We sat there like that for almost 20 minutes before she spoke again.
“Why did they do it?”
Wow. The age-old question. The question with no good answer.
“I don’t know. They thought they were right when they were wrong. I’m sorry.”
She just looked at me and then looked back in the direction of the robe.
“I’m ready to look at it.”
I was shocked. But she led me over there and never let go of my hand until we were face to face with hate. Together. Hand in hand. Both with questions. Both uncomfortable, I’m sure. Both unsure of what would happen next.
Eventually she let go and I stepped back to give her a moment. Her moment. It was the most moving sight to see this girl stare down a piece of oppression for her. Arms crossed, eyes focused, head high. Not a single atom of fear. No wavering look. Just quiet strength in her little soul. You couldn’t help but just watch her. We had drawn a small crowd, but we never moved.
The moment was interrupted by a little tap on my arm. One of the boys from my group had wandered back and was watching the scene with me.
“Why is she staring at the ghost costume?”
This little white boy just stared at me with the most innocent look—not realizing the moment he was witnessing. These kids had run by—not understanding at all the severity of what they had walked past.
“It’s not a ghost costume, buddy. The people that wore those treated black people like they didn’t matter. They thought that white people were better than black people.” I spoke as honestly and as plainly as I could. I wasn’t quite sure how to explain racism to an 8-year-old.
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know why they thought that.”
“Did they hurt black people?”
“Yes. Yes, they did.”
“Did they kill black people?”
“Yes. Yes, they did.”
He held my gaze and asked each question with such yearning to understand. I kept thinking of “better” ways I could explain it. But what good would it do to try to make it sound better? So, I just answered him.
At this point, the little girl was standing next to me again. She put her hand back in mine. The boy spoke again.
“They didn’t really love God then did they?”
Wow. I wasn’t ready for that question. At least, I wasn’t expecting that question from an 8-year-old.
“They thought they did. They thought they were doing the right thing. But no—I don’t believe they loved God the right way.”
He looked at me, then at the black girl standing next to me, then the robe, then me again.
“Is it still real?”
Both pairs of eyes could have burned holes in my face waiting for the answer.
“Yeah it still exists, bud.”
His eyes went back to the robe.
“I’m going to pray for them.”
WHAT.
They walked away towards the rest of the group and left me standing there in shock. This little boy just told me he was going to pray for Klan members so they could learn to love Jesus better.
And the day continued. We went through the rest of the museum. The little girl hardly ever let go of my hand and then we just went home.
And I’ve remembered every detail of that day for 2 years.
We should continue to work for equality.
We should continue to work for legislation.
We should continue to face uncomfortable things.
We should continue to ask questions when we don’t understand.
But mostly, we should continue to pray.
Because this is a heart thing.
Minds can be altered and changed, but hearts are beyond human control. Only God can see and change the heart.
These conversations cannot end when they’re no longer trendy or the hype has died down. These conversations must continue and we must pray without ceasing.
That little boy broke my heart in the most convicting way. His first instinct when faced with hatred—even in the smallest understanding of it—was to pray for them. He was the purest picture of childlike faith. Faith that someone’s heart would be changed because of the prayers he said he would pray.
I have no expectation of how you will receive this story. There are few I have shared it with until now, but I have spent many days thinking of it.
So perhaps that is my request.
That you sit with it. That you examine your own heart and pray for the hearts of others.
Because this is a heart thing.
And because it matters.
