racism

There’s a black spot in the middle of the dining room floor.

It stays.

The burn mark embedded in the number 2 common oak hardwood floor is part of family lore now. It’s not a dramatic story; the details don’t really warm the heart.

Still, the memories have been woven into our history now.

We’re keeping the history. And the memories.

It was close to fifteen years ago that the Lovely Lady’s mom said goodbye to her sweetie as she rode away with her sister for a women’s meeting early one morning.

Her sweetie, the white-haired man who taught me all he knew of operating a music store, sat at the table in the kitchen with a cup of instant coffee between his gnarled hands. It was a morning like any other.

Only it wasn’t.

A couple of hours later, my mother-in-law and her sister pulled back into the driveway, almost immediately noticing that smoke was wafting out around the front door. My mother-in-law suffered with crippling rheumatoid arthritis, so her sister rushed into the house. A moment later, she came out coughing and sputtering with my father-in-law in tow.

Always the frugal pair, my in-laws had a wood stove in the living room to supplement the central heating unit. The stove put out enough heat to allow them to turn the thermostat down a few degrees and save a significant amount on their utility bills.

The old man had been tending the fire when an ember fell to the hardwood floor just beside the fire-resistant mat under the stove. For some reason, instead of picking it up with the tongs, he simply allowed it to sit there and ignite the floor into flame. When the Lovely Lady’s aunt burst in the front door, he was sitting in a chair right beside the fire, oblivious to the danger he was in.

I said it wasn’t a spectacular story. I even said it wasn’t one to warm the heart. It is certainly neither of those.

The little campfire on the floor was the beginning of a long goodbye for his family (myself included) and the man we loved. Within months, even though he lived a few more years, he was gone, locked in his own world—oblivious to ours.

Today, we look at the black spot lying there and we always laugh as we recall the event. Then a funny thing happens. The room falls silent, each of us lost in memories.

They are different for every one of us, I’m sure. Fun. Sad. Happy. Serious. All of them momentarily bringing to life once again the character—the father—the grandfather.

I only bring up the burned spot because we’re in the process of refinishing the old hardwood floor. Now would be the time to sand down that black stain in the middle of the expanse of oak. My brother-in-law asked me the other day about it. I told him the same thing I wrote at the beginning of this little essay.

It stays.

I want to remember the character who was my father-in-law. But somehow, the longer I write, the more I realize there is something else about that floor that reminds me more of who he was than the black mark marring it.

Number two common oak. It’s not a choice most folks would make for their living/dining room floor.

Clear oak is what you want. With straight, even grain in long boards several feet in length, the consistency of color and appearance is superior. Each piece looks like the one next to it and takes the stain and finish uniformly.

Number two common oak, on the other hand, comes in planks about two feet in length and in varying grains and colors, as well as having a few knot holes and even a worm hole or two. Dark planks sit side by side with white ones. You might find a few with clear, straight grain, but it’s more likely you’ll see the whirl of tight knots here and a filled hole over there.

Over hundreds of square feet, not one board is like another there.

The catalogs suggest you might want a number two common oak floor if you want the floor to demonstrate character.

Oh, this floor is filled with characters!

Somehow, in my mind’s eye, I see God laying the floor of His Church.

What a sight to behold! It’s not, as some would have you believe, all of one color and consistency. Not at all.

God’s Church—not a building, but a people—is full of character, and full of characters. Exactly as He designed it to be, the colors and personalities as different as can be. Idiosyncrasies are the rule rather than the exception.

What a beautiful sight! The colors blend and complement each other, the grains and imperfections showing the grace and mercy of their Creator.

Side by side, interlocked together, our strength and character evident to all, we work toward a common goal. All of humankind should have the opportunity to be a part of this wonderful mosaic.

Side by side, interlocked together, we work toward a common goal. Click To Tweet

The Savior Himself said it so clearly: They’ll know you are my followers by your love for each other. (John 13:35)

And yet, it doesn’t seem to be working like that, does it?

Scraped and scuffed, with water spills hither and yon, the old floor doesn’t present such a beautiful picture to a world that looks on.

You know, the process I’m going through with the old floor in this house is one of the most violent and disturbing tasks I have done while remodeling. The sander beats the old varnish off, whump, whump, whump, as I shove it back and forth across the floor, shaking the whole room. Again and again, changing from the roughest, open grit to the fine, polishing surface, the old machine does violence to the wood beneath.

It seems as if the process would destroy any beauty—even any usefulness remaining in the old wood.

And yet, the day will come when the new stain is applied and then the new finish, the liquid soothing away all memory of the hurt. The floor will once again be made beautiful, its usefulness guaranteed for another generation or more.

I wonder if we complain overmuch at the touch of our Maker’s tools, the cleansing of the dirt and filth. His heavy-handedness is only for our good, His short-lived discipline—for the long-term joy in His service.

Number two common.

I’m satisfied with the title. I rather like some of the characters around me. They don’t all look like me, don’t all talk like me, and certainly don’t all think like me.

It’s beautiful. Even that big black spot over there, a reminder of former foolishness and loved ones, now absent.

Beautiful.

To all who mourn in Israel,
    he will give a crown of beauty for ashes,
a joyous blessing instead of mourning,
    festive praise instead of despair.
In their righteousness, they will be like great oaks
    that the Lord has planted for his own glory.
(Isaiah 61:3 ~ NLT ~ Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. All rights reserved.)

The Almighty must have loved the common people; He made so many of them.
(attributed to Abraham Lincoln ~ U.S. President ~ 1809-1865)

I never knew him.

The same could be said of many whose voices have fallen on my ears—whose hands I have shaken—whose eyes I’ve looked into.

Him, I never spoke with—never laid eyes on.

The young African-American man was moved by an article I wrote and was kind enough to send a note telling me so. We were connected only by the information superhighway, a mode of transport that never brought us closer than a note here, a click of the “like” button there.

Friends, they call it.

As if applying the label could tie the cords to bind individuals together. As if we could struggle past our differences in locale and in community.

He was a student of the martial arts; I a student of classical music. He was city through and through; I lock the doors to my car on the outskirts of any urban center, unlocking them only if there is no other choice or when I have passed the city limits sign on the other side.

And yet, it seemed there was something there—a connection of sorts.

Tears filled my eyes on the day he wrote the words: He’s gone. Sitting right across the table from me, and he dropped dead.

His best friend had died of a massive heart attack as they sat eating and joking. He never got over it.

I wrote a note, which he acknowledged. We exchanged other notes, but they were vague and disconnected. Something had changed.

A few months later, I was shocked to read the words from a relative in a message to the young man’s online friends.

Tonight, he decided there was nothing left worth living for. I’m sorry to have to tell you this way. Thanks for being his friends.

I know. I cry too easily. This was different.

A friend died, his life ended before he was a quarter of a century old.

I never knew him.

Still, he was my friend, my brother. The tears flowed.

They fill my eyes even now.

Can I tell you something? Even if I had never exchanged a word with him, we would have been connected. Even if his name had never been in the listing of friends I had made in my social network, it would be true.

If I haven’t made it clear enough before in my writing, let me say it again here:

We are all connected. All.

There was one Man who insisted on it. At the crossroads of history, He stood and said: If I do this—if I allow myself to be the sacrifice—it will be for every human whose heart beats within his breast. I will draw all men to myself. (John 12:32)

I am not a universalist. Many who are drawn will not come. I know that.

And yet, what if all that is standing between one who is drawn and the Man-God I claim to follow is me?

Or what if—on the flip side of the coin—what if I’m the one who will help that one who is drawn to make up his or her mind?

If I say I love God, but do not love my brother, I am a liar. The truth is not to be found in me. (1 John 4:20)

I watch with horror as the barriers are being erected. High and strong, the walls are being fortified.

Brothers dwell within every fortification, but few will venture out from behind their safety. Few can abandon their petty claims—to hold out a hand in friendship, to embrace family.

Family.

We argue about words and slogans, while people die. We insist on our version of truth while souls hang in the balance.

I’m convinced we will meet again one day, where no barrier stands. Together, beyond that dividing line between this earthly existence and eternity in Heaven, we’ll stand and will weep as we realize the powerful truth of His words.

All men. Black, white, brown—called out of every nation, every tribe.

Drawn to Him—away from worship of false gods, from following false prophets, from teaching false doctrines.

We’ll weep until He wipes away the tears from our eyes Himself. (Revelation 21:4)

I said earlier that I cry too easily. I wonder.

Perhaps we need to cry more while we’re here, not less.

We need to cry more while we’re here, not less. Click To Tweet

My young friend who abandoned hope sat and listened to music right before he took his last breath. Missing his friend who had died before his eyes, he thought he heard in the words of the song an invitation to join him.

Perhaps, it seemed easier than walking a difficult, lonely road without him.

Another young friend, who also has known the horrible pain and emptiness of losing someone he loves, wrote recently of his struggle to comprehend a God who allows such things.

He has reached the conclusion—not lightly nor easily—that likely, it’s our understanding of God that is flawed and not the other way around.

We build a box and stuff God in it, much as we do with people.

Neither will stay in the boxes we have built.

He is too big.

People are too stubborn.

And yet, out in the open seems dangerous, doesn’t it? Too exposed, too brightly lit, too vulnerable.

But we’ve tried hiding. It achieves nothing lasting, leaving only suspicion and hatred.

Perhaps, it’s time to try openness.

There’s more room for hugging and handshakes out here.

There will even be some tears.

Somehow, I don’t think that’s a bad thing.

So let the light guide your way, yeah
Hold every memory as you go
And every road you take, will always lead you home, home

It’s been a long day without you, my friend
And I’ll tell you all about it when I see you again
We’ve come a long way from where we began
Oh, I’ll tell you all about it when I see you again
When I see you again.
(See You Again ~ Franks, Puth, Thomaz ~ 2014)

How wonderful and pleasant it is
    when brothers live together in harmony!
For harmony is as precious as the anointing oil
    that was poured over Aaron’s head,
    that ran down his beard
    and onto the border of his robe.
Harmony is as refreshing as the dew from Mount Hermon
    that falls on the mountains of Zion.
And there the Lord has pronounced his blessing,
    even life everlasting.
(Psalm 133 ~ NLT)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

Characters

Crying In the Open