Plow your unplowed hearts. (Jeremiah 4:4, The Message)
George Floyd's last words, "I can't breathe," plowed the hearts of the nations. His words tore through our collective soil, and that amended earth bodes a question. What will we plant in that furrowed ground?
A few days ago, I read a post on Instagram about what white people don't usually think about. When I need a neutral colored pair of hose, I never flinch at how the hosiery is typically described--"nude" or "flesh colored." But what if your flesh is not white? Something so seemingly simple is an affront to a dark-skinned woman.
When I next saw my African American colleague and friend, I shared my realization, and she smiled knowingly as if to say, "Priscilla, that is only the tip of the iceberg." I told her I felt powerless. "What can I do to show my support, to be a healing voice for the heartache in our community and world?"
She thought for a moment and said, "You can write. Use your platform to tell our stories." Underneath her suggestion was the unspoken plea not to remain silent.
Here at my small platform, I am fortunate to have a diverse group of people who follow my posts. Black, white and brown people. Millenials, baby boomers and those from the greatest generation. Gay and straight. Democrats and Republicans. Americans and Italians (and maybe other cultures), those with advanced degrees and others with none. There are parents, widows and widowers, single and married. Divorced. Christians and Jews. (and perhaps other faiths) So many of us at the table, and each person representing a sphere of influence.
What will you plant in your plowed heart? We cannot afford to let this unearthing lie fallow and go to weeds.
UPDATE: So many of you wrote that you were praying for my mother-in-law, Emma. Praise be to God in heaven! Yesterday we learned that she tested negative for COVID a second time. She was moved out of quarantine and continues to recover. Giovanni and I thank you for your love. For your prayers. We rojoice.