Tragedy and Grace

This is written with permission of the daughter of Sha-Von. 

Last year, my church started a journey of more actively pursuing racial justice.  After so much struggle in the Twin Cities, we could not turn our eyes away any longer.  As a step in this journey, the staff and executive team was asked to make progress in our ability to adapt to diverse cultures, backgrounds, and experiences, and to understand more deeply the biases operating in us. 

I remember meeting one-on-one with our consultant.  I found myself saying to him over and over, “I feel as if I know what I need to do in my head, but I don’t intentionally create space and time to interact with the diversity around me.  I’m scared.  I'm a perfectionist.  And I can’t be perfect at this.  I’m worried that my interactions could create harm.  I don’t want to be that person.  So I just withdraw.” 

That was last spring.  And I didn’t make any steps.  I’ve let my accountability partner down.  Then June came, and something happened.  

Our church had a partnership with Emma Norton Services, a partnership which involved the rental of our parsonage property to a family coming out of a domestic abuse.  They happened to be black. 

One Friday night in June, I was sitting on my deck, enjoying a glass of wine.  And phone calls started coming in.  “Kelly, something has happened in the house.  There is stuff on social media about a murder.  The police have it taped off and won’t talk to us.”  I went into management mode: communication, research, contacts. 

Sadly, it was true.  You can find the details here.  Woodbury man charged with murder in stabbing of his wife, complaint says | KSTP.com  In the end, six minor children and two young adults were without a mom because of the horrible way domestic violence often ends—with death. 

I had not been involved in the partnership.  So beyond being able to identify a few of the kids, I did not have a relationship with this family.  By Tuesday, I realized my church was both this family’s landlord and spiritual support system. 

I remember praying.  God, I am not black.  I cannot give them what they need.  They have every right to be suspicious of me.  Please put the right people around me.  Help me and the people of this church…  Adapt, Adapt, Adapt.  Don’t judge. Don’t judge. Don’t judge.  Understand.  Understand. Understand.  Love. Love. Love. 

The week that unfolded was the most significant experience I’ve ever had of receiving and giving grace...  which is so incredibly sad, because it came out of someone else’s tragedy.  I was reflecting with the Sha-Von's (the victim's) daughter recently how this doesn’t seem fair. Such is the nature of grace—it comes in the crud of life.

I did my best. I made myself as available as I could emotionally, spiritually, and socially.  I was not perfect at all, but I was offered gratitude and thanks.  This family was honest about their needs--grateful when I could provide and frank and understanding when I couldn’t.  Sha-Von's sister, cousin, daughter, father, and brother became like lights that kept beckoning me towards love.  At times I felt as if I couldn’t do it.  “How could I bring another family member into the house and be constantly aware of what they were seeing?”  “How could I get some of the POC in our church and community to help me in all the ways I was inadequate?”  “How can I go through another night without sleep?”    

And God’s presence was there.  People of my church understood and listened when I talked to them about ‘awareness’ when ‘helping.’  The church facility manager was sensitive, strategic, and smart when it came to handing the house/scene.  A Black funeral home stepped in during a moment of deep need… and they understood my limitations in the situation and compensated.  During the funeral, a former employee from Emma Norton offered a style of prayer my lips just don’t speak, and a black colleague offered the music.  Teachers showed up for the kids as familiar faces of love when so many strangers surrounded them.  The people of my church offered me words of care when I was worn out. 

One of my greatest fears is that I’m not enough, something I know might be strange for some of you to hear.  Because I can be a lot.  It's compensation, dear friends.  Sha-Von’s young adult daughter and I spent time together as we cleaned the house out.  You, of course, can imagine the ups and downs of that.  I started to feel kind of motherly toward her—mama bear stuff, ya know?  And it scared me.   Because I can’t be enough in that role.  But the beauty of it is that she didn’t need to me be.  I just needed to be a pastor who gave her rides and sorted papers and packed boxed.  That was enough—not perfect.  Just enough. 

Back to the conversation with the consultant: When I told him I was scared to interact with those different from me because I might screw up, he said, “You aren’t going to be perfect.  You just got to do it.”