Welcoming the Visitors, Visiting with Folks who are Home

Charla and I are in another state. We have been here multiple times and have always enjoyed our travels. This time is a different time. We are travelers, which is not new, but our context is extraordinarily different.

I love traveling with her.  We have gone to interesting places and see interesting things, though most have been here in the USA. This weekend, I will walk into a world that is very new.  I am attending a stem cell training conference for physicians under the direction of Boston BioLife as a principal for Regenerative Outcomes. You may have heard or read about Doug Oliver. He has an extraordinary story.  By training I hold the doctorate in counseling psychology from the University of Mississippi. As a matter of choice and the heart, I am a family psychologist with interests that are as diverse as social justice, black farmers, poetry, ministry to couples and families, and the list could go on and on. I am a recovering academician. I still miss the academy, but thankfully I get to dabble still in some of those matters.

Be on the lookout on this page of a preliminary perspective on a bioethical translation model for working with patients in the stem cell world.  Why would that be of interest?  There are many, but a key one is justice. Unless things happen, only wealthy white people who can write a check will get the needed treatments.

So, it is within this context that this post is prompted.  It happened at breakfast in the restaurant.  Charla and I were hungry. We went to the same restaurant that we were at last night.  This morning, there was a different wait staff. The young woman who served us was obviously a Muslim. She wore her hijab. The irony was biting as we engaged her, or rather, she us, with the newsfeed over in the background showed scenario after scenario and quote after quote from today's political scene as we ordered breakfast. 

She is from another country. She wears clothing unique to her religion. She has been here several years. She became a US citizen two or three years ago.  She left family in her country of origin, and she has a few family members and a few friends in the states.

In ways that only she can do, Charla engaged her in conversation about what it is like for her in America.  She was surprisingly vulnerable as she shared around the fringes of the mistreatment she had received. It broke our hearts, both Charla and me.

We value engaging in differences. Those things make the world more interesting.  We attempt to care as best we can despite our frail human selves others around us.  Human to human, person to person, and the two of us older humans and she a younger human, to hear of her mistreatment was sad and painful.  We encouraged her to consider "what is the matter with you that you need to treat me this way," rather than accepting flaws within her.  She commented about one theological point from her religion and how God may say X, Y, or Z, but that she chooses to accept and not to judge.

So, here we are, readers of these pitiful words, in a world where philosophies and ideologies collide. No doubt about that.  In those moments of collision, we are still people, we can still offer grace, and that, I think, is what the Man from Nazareth would expect.  After all, that is what He did.

Grief, Loss, and the Land

Over the last few days I have been working on a grant for a photojournalism project. In re-reading the narratives of African American farmers and family who lost their land, livelihood, and health, it occurred to me that grief was a meaningful way to capture their struggles in part, insofar as I could understand it.  These things are still happening in America.  Yes, even here in America.  Grief is a common human experience whether people, relationships, property, or whatever we hold dear.

So, here are the words I wrote this morning about their stories of grief and loss. With apologies for presuming to speak for someone else.

Grief, Loss, Land, and Livelihood

MY VOICE:

 

Grief wearies the body

It troubles the soul
It can be about life or death
Or about dreams untold.

It may speak of unspoken hopes

It can be about ideas or places.
When it has us against the ropes
It keeps us longing for those other spaces.

FARMER'S VOICE:

 

I once owned that land

As far as you could see
Grew those crops to feed
All these folks and me.

I owned those tractors

That were stored in that barn
Worked daylight to dark
Didn’t mean nobody no harm.

The feds they came

With some papers and those guns
Run us all off
Toward the setting of the sun.

My grandpa he owned this land

Bought by clearin’ out those trees
Used those long saws
Till he wore out his back and knees.

Now they’re takin’ it away

And it don’t seem fair
I paid all my taxes
Just to get us somewhere.

Those white folks sure know

How keep a black man down
If they don’t like the color of your skin
They call it a sun down town.

Yes, I’m filled with grief

Buried deep in my soul
I’ve worked this land
And the stories that can be told.

MY VOICE:

 

Yes that old man grief

It takes hold, sneaks up from behind.
Its clutches are strong and forceful,
And no one is respected, no one.

It comes from wherever it comes,

And it goes wherever it goes.

Grief strangles with its hands,

Squeezes the neck of joy.

It removes the colors

From the rainbow.

It makes the tastiest of

Morsels taste bland.
 
Grief asks a lot of questions
It gives but few answers.
It forces us into chasms of empty space
And then lets go.

Its forces are vast

And uncontrollable.

Its thirst is like the desert
In a driving rainstorm that appears from nowhere.

Its hunger is like an

Animal that is
Lurking about looking for prey.

Grief is like the grave with

No body found down deep inside it.

Grief dulls the senses, robs one of

Words, and
Makes itself the focus as people stare.

Grief keeps us up all night

Filling us with fright.
Grief keeps us occupied all day
Creating shadows to keep us at bay.

Grief reminds us of things we wished

Telling us that all is still amiss.
Grief beats us at every turn
Reminding us that we’ll never learn.

FARMER'S VOICE:

 

Grief weighs me down

Down deep in my soul.
I may be black but
Feelings I don’t lack.

That old friend of mine

Living beneath that old oak tree.
They tried to take his land
But finally he is free.

He lost his family

He lost his wife.
The price he paid
Just to have a life.

MY VOICE:

 

Grief tells us of those who are gone

Reminding us that we’re not really strong.
Grief may let us know who is here
Whispering to our souls not to hold too near.

Grief is a circle goes round and round

Driving us all right into the ground.
Grief has no beginning or end
When it will leave can only depend.

So, I’ll continue to give voice

To the grief in my soul.
Until that day I’ll rejoice
With all its stories finally told.

VOICE OF US ALL:

Grief. A strange thing.

Grief. A very strange thing.