I have debated within my heart for a long time about sharing this story on a public forum.
It touches on an issue which may hit some raw nerves in our present social climate. Some parts are not especially flattering to some people who meant well at the time, but I feel the lesson in this story is worth the painful parts in the telling of it.
It’s not even my story to tell, actually; it’s my mother’s, but as she departed this life in November of 1978, she is far beyond the reaches of any embarrassment this story might bring. Besides, I think she would want it told if she thought anyone could benefit from it. It is the story of how the Holy Spirit called my mother outside the security of her comfort zone. I guess it’s appropriate that writing it for her takes me outside my comfort zone, as well. Here goes.
We Will Teach Them
It was 1969, and the Civil Rights Movement was a little late catching on in some parts of the southern United States.
I was 5 ½ , and except for occasional glimpses of things I did not fully understand on the nightly news, I lived a pretty sheltered existence, protected by loving parents who did not feel it appropriate for little girls to have too much exposure to the seedier or more violent ways of the world.
I did have a vague sense that a racial divide existed. I had heard that ugly racial epithet – the one people now euphemistically refer to as the “N” word – but it was not spoken in our family home. I didn’t know it, but a small crack was about to appear in the protective wall behind which I had been living. It was a crack just wide enough for me to get a glimpse of the other side.
It all started in our little church.
Our congregation was located in an older neighborhood of small, but aging family homes. When they were originally built, white middle class families had lived in them. By the time this story takes place, however, the children who had grown up in those homes had long since left the nest, and the aging parents who still lived in the old home places were dying off as the years went by. The once bright houses were falling into disrepair and neglect. The former “white” neighborhood had been “darkening” in recent years, as the property values fell, and people of color flocked to an area they could now afford. And there sat our all white Christian church there in the middle like an obsolete monument to what once was.
I believe credit is due to the leadership in that little church, though.
They had open eyes and saw the needs that surrounded us and had a sincere desire to regain relevance in the crumbling community. So they scrounged the funds together and purchased an old school bus which they painted a cheery purple and white. They canvassed the area around our building and spoke with the parents of the children they met. We would send the bus around to pick up those children before every service, transport them to our building, and teach them about Jesus. Volunteers would man the bus, and even teach Bible stories and songs of worship on the way to church, making effective use of every minute the children were in their care. Not everyone was on board, though. The grumbling began.“Those children have never been to church before; they won’t know how to act!” some of the women said.
“We will have to teach them,” one lone voice broke in.
That one lone voice was my mother’s. She taught the 1st and 2nd grade Sunday school class and had been “warned” that most of the children who would be coming on the bus were in that age group. She was ready; she had a plan.
Now, her welcoming stance may not seem too remarkable, but when I tell you how far my mother had come to reach this place, I think you will agree that the Holy Spirit must have had a hand in placing her there. This is her story.
My Mother’s Story
My mother had grown up in the foothills of the Ozark Mountains several miles from the nearest town – if you could call it that.
It was basically a wide spot in the road, and the residents had to travel to the next town which had a post office where they could pick up their mail. Her house had three rooms and was set back in a grove of cedar trees on a rocky hillside. It was wired for electricity, so each room had a bare bulb dangling from the center of the ceiling with a piece of twine to pull to turn it on and off. No indoor plumbing, the nearest neighbors were beyond their view. Obviously, any thoughts of racial or cultural diversity were far beyond their range of vision, as well.
That little community where they got their mail was known as a “sundown town.” For my younger readers who may have never heard that term, it was the moniker assigned to places which were openly hostile to people of color. The implication was that if you were black, you better not be in the vicinity when the sun went down, lest unspeakable horrors such as lynchings or other violence befall you.
My mother was just a baby when her mother passed away, so her grandmother moved into the house to help her father raise her. It was from this grandmother that my mother learned her first lessons in defense of Jim Crow. According to my great grandmother, the greatest danger to white women was black men. My mother was raised to believe that black men were rapists and perpetrators of every violent crime known to man. As awful as that message was, I know my great grandmother meant well; she was merely repeating what she had been taught, herself, and only intended to protect her little granddaughter should she ever encounter someone who was not white like her, although such encounters were pretty much unheard of where they lived.
Fast forward several years. My mother married my father, and a little over a year later, I arrived.
Over the vociferous objections of concerned family, my father moved us to the city where he could secure employment and set my mother up comfortably in a modern house with full plumbing amenities. But with city life also comes exposure to “others.” And my mother brought with her the fears with which she had been raised. These scenes comprise my earliest childhood memories.
I remember playing in a fenced backyard, and my mother running down the back steps to scoop me into her arms, whisking me into the safety of the house when she heard the garbage truck enter our neighborhood the next street over. She closed the doors and curtains, and held me tight as she peaked furtively from the corner of a window so she would know when the “colored” men who picked up the trash were a safe distance from the house.
This was a twice a week occurrence.
Another time, my parents bought some furniture, which was delivered to the house by black men. Mother put me in a laundry basket in the hallway linen closet and covered me with clean towels. As the men carried the sofa into the house, she stood guard outside that closet. I still remember the palpable fear and look of terror in her eyes right before she shut me in.
This was the same woman who, years later, stood in the middle of the naysayers and made it clear that she would welcome little black children into our church. She greeted them warmly as they entered her classroom and enthusiastically taught them from the Bible. She invited them all to share our pew with us during the worship hour. The line of children stretched to the other end of the bench. It was my job to sit about half-way down the row in the middle of them so I could demonstrate by example how properly to behave in church. (I failed at this task more times than I like to admit).
But the biggest, most daring stretch my mother made outside of her comfort zone was when she asked my Daddy to drive her to the homes of every single bus riding student she had in her class so she could personally invite their parents to come to church, as well! And he did.
I also remember one Sunday, a young black woman standing alone just a few feet from a gaggle of white women in the church courtyard area after services. My mother exited the building and walked right past the women, straight to that young black woman and introduced herself. The young woman’s name was Sandy. Mother put her arm around the nervous woman’s shoulders and guided her over to the group of white women. “I want y’all to meet my new friend, Sandy,” mother told them.
Being a child, I did not see anything too remarkable about my mother’s behavior that year. Looking back now and recalling the events I have shared in this article, though, I plainly see that my mother must have been led by the summoning call of the Holy Spirit to set aside her childhood indoctrination of fear and to step outside her comfort zone. And although my mother tried to drill many lessons into my thick head, the lesson I learned the best is this:
Sometimes the Spirit will speak hard Truths. We may have to abandon the teachings of people whom we love and trust in order to follow the compulsion of the Lord. It’s not going to be comfortable. It may be downright scary, especially if you are waiting for God to part the waters before you but suddenly realize that He intends for you to swim! He will not let you drown.
Getting Your Attention
Is the Spirit trying to get your attention right now?
Have you been ignoring His voice, because it contradicts your previous convictions? Have you been resisting His promptings because what He is asking you to do is hard. I entreat you to examine the scriptures.
When has He ever asked anyone to do what is easy?
Take the first step outside your comfort zone. It is a step of faith. He wants no other kind.
