A prayer for the coming week

It was the summer of 1972, I was eight years old, and I was excited about the song from Godspell, "Day By Day".  I didn't know anything about Godspell except that the song was on the radio and it was a cool song.  I remember finding the Godspell album at the store where my grandmother worked and just almost shouting, "It's Day By Day, Robin and Company!" (the credited singers for the track.)

I now know that Godspell is a musical loosely based on the Gospel of Matthew and containing interpretations of other Biblical stories.  In the '80's, I saw a community production of Godspell in Tallahassee, Florida, where the cast members were costumed '80's style (including one member dressed as Michael Jackson).

This song has been an earworm for me for the last few days.

I've been very disappointed this past week in the behavior of many who claim to wear the name "Christian".  Frankly, we're called to be better than this.  It seems that we are more interested in protecting our political power and influence than we are in carrying out the command of Jesus to "go and preach the gospel to all nations" and in fulfilling the greatest command to "love one another as I have loved you". 

This week, I fear we will face similar turmoil.  I fear we will see truth-tellers branded as liars and people that will posture before the camera and the microphone who claim to want the truth and who claim to care about people and care about this country--when, in fact, they are addicts whose drug of choice is power and prestige. 

Christians are not called to this.  I am not called to this.  The power Jesus had when he was on earth, he exercised to the glory of his Father and to the service of others. 

The song "Day By Day", which is a cool song, is also a prayer.  The song is one chorus, repeated six times. 

I think it's a good prayer for the coming week.

Day by day
Day by day
Oh dear Lord
Three things I pray
To see Thee more clearly
Love Thee more dearly
Follow Thee more nearly
Day by day.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

If you want to hear this cool song, click on the picture above.

The wrong door . . . or no?

(The following is my own opinion, based on the facts as I am aware of at this moment.  My opinions may change as I learn more of the facts surrounding this case.)

In the summer of 1983, I lived in Dorman Hall at Florida State University.  One day, I came back from class and got into the elevator.  When the elevator door opened, I got off the elevator, turned down the hallway, went down a few feet and stuck my key in the lock of a door . . . and asked myself, why isn't the door unlocking?

That's when I looked up and saw that the number on the door was 206, not 306. 

I hadn't been paying attention and I got off on the wrong floor and went to the wrong door.  

In Dorman Hall, as in many residence halls built in the 1950's and 1960's, the corridors all look alike.  So unless you know what floor you've gotten off on, it's easy to go to the wrong door.

That's why, when I heard of the alleged circumstances surrounding Botham Jean's shooting, I understood how going to "the wrong door" could have been a possibility.  Amber Guyger, the Dallas police officer arrested and charged with his shooting, claims that, after a long shift, she parked on a level she normally didn't park on and ended up going to the wrong apartment.  Her apartment is directly below Botham Jean's.  The apartment complex where they both lived is described as having symmetrical hallways, and other residents, according to this New York Times article, have reported occasionally going to the wrong apartment.  Maybe that's why Botham Jean put his red mat in front of his door.

That doesn't explain, though, the door being ajar.

Although, if I thought it was my apartment, I'd be concerned. 

That also doesn't explain her not noticing the red mat in front of his door.  In the case of me going to the wrong door at Dorman Hall, though, I wasn't paying attention and I might not have seen a mat in front of the door. 

In her version of events, she opened the door to a dark apartment and saw a silhouette of someone, gave "verbal commands" and when he didn't respond, she shot him.  Then she turned on the lights and realized she was in the wrong apartment.

Lawyers for Botham Jean's family say that his door was closed.  Neighbors have said that they heard someone banging on the door shouting, "Let me in!" and "Open up!" before they heard gunshots.  They've also said they heard someone, maybe Botham Jean, saying, "Oh, my God, why did you do that?" 

Jean's family also say that he and Amber Guyger did not know each other.  

On the day of Jean's funeral, the media broadcast the results of a search warrant executed at his apartment.  The police found, according to an inventory:

• 2 fired cartridge casings
• a laptop computer
• a black backpack with police equipment and paperwork
• an insulated lunch box
• a black ballistic vest with "police" markings
• 10.4 grams of marijuana in ziplock bags (less than an ounce)
• a metal marijuana grinder
• 2 RFID keys'
• 2 used packages of medical aid

Of course, what did the media immediately pounce on?  The marijuana.  The lawyer for Botham Jean's family has accused the police of mounting a smear campaign against Botham Jean.  There's even been some speculation that the marijuana was planted in Jean's apartment. (The police had been called earlier to Jean's complex by someone complaining of a strong smell of marijuana on the floor where Jean lived.) 

We have yet to hear the results of any search warrant executed on Amber Guyger's apartment.  

In another account of events, Guyger was allegedly struggling with the lock when Jean opened the door and confronted her.  

Since I wasn't there, I can't tell you what happened.  There are only two people that know the whole truth, and one of them is dead.  In the early stages of any investigation, and especially a high-profile one with loads of media attention, there are going to be conflicting reports and reports that are downright wrong.

But what it all boils down to is this:  An African-American man was killed in his own home by a white off-duty police officer.

This is frightening.  

I'm a white woman.  As much as I may want to "get it", I will never truly "get it".  Just like people who want to will never truly "get" what my husband and I deal with in raising a son with autism. 

I'm a white woman who wants to believe that the Civil Rights movement and the laws that were passed as a result solved the race problem in this country.

I'm a white woman that wants to believe that law enforcement and the legal system is truly "blind" except to facts, and that people can objectively look at facts, piece them together, and come to a correct conclusion. 

But is this true?

There may be laws ending legalized discrimination, but those laws do nothing to change the hearts of people.  Attitudes cannot be legislated.  The attitude of racism and prejudice can't be changed by law.

And I only need to take a quick look at history to see that no, "the system" isn't blind except to facts. 

This particular shooting has resonated with me more than others have because Botham Jean was a member of the Church of Christ, as I am, and he graduated from the same university that many members of my congregation are affiliated with.  People I know are expressing deep anger and deep sorrow. 

Did Amber Guyger go to the wrong apartment by mistake, find the door ajar, go in, and shoot a man, thinking he was a burglar in her apartment?

Did she go to the wrong apartment by mistake, try to open a closed door, get confronted by Botham Jean, and shoot him?

Or did she go to his apartment on purpose to confront him and to shoot him?

Did she go to the wrong door?

Or no?

Right now, I don't know.  Right now, I don't have the answers.  Right now, I don't know all of the facts.  I only know that a lot of people are hurting and angry. 

This particular entry is mostly me, as a white woman, trying to work out my feelings and my observations about yet another white cop-black victim shooting in the United States.  The facts must come out.  Justice must be served for Botham Jean.  Amber Guyger must be treated as any other accused would be. 

I want justice.  I want truth.  And I don't want our anger and our grief to overshadow anyone's search for truth.  

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Me and Mrs. Baxter

One of my all-time favorite books is Celia Garth, a novel written by Gwen Bristow nearly 60 years ago.  It tells the story of a seamstress living in Charleston, South Carolina during the Revolutionary War, how she fell in love, lost her love, found love again . . . and by the way, she became a spy for the Revolutionary cause.

I recently re-read the book and found myself thinking about one of the minor characters, Mrs. Baxter.
When we meet Mrs. Baxter, she's telling a customer in Celia's dress shop about her little boy George, taking pains to explain that he was named for General Washington, not for that "stupid old king," George III. 

Later, we learn that her first name is Charlotte, but that she prefers to be called Patsy, because Charlotte is the name of the queen and Patsy is the nickname of Martha Washington. 

In the course of the book, Celia gets engaged, only to have her fiance and her family murdered by a band of British soldiers who also destroyed their property.  With her future destroyed, Celia, who had been staying with a woman for whom she sewed, decides to go back to work at the dress shop.  It's the low point in Celia's character arc, and it's before she is asked to become a spy for the American cause. 

Back in the dress shop, she muses on how the whole town has gone Tory.  And she thinks about a recent order from Mrs. Baxter, who wanted her handkerchiefs embroidered with the initial of her first name . . . C for Charlotte.  Celia wondered if people forgot that she used to detest being called by the name of the British queen.  Or, as long as she was being socially accepted by the winning side, maybe Mrs. Baxter just didn't care.

This is sometimes how I feel these days.

I feel like the only way to be accepted by anyone is to just not care about my convictions or even to have any.  No matter what I think, do, or say, someone is going to jump all over me and accuse me of being hateful to whatever group they think I'm being hateful to. 

I am so sick of the division in this country.  I'm reminded both of the Bible verse and Abraham Lincoln's speech in which they both said, a house divided among itself cannot stand.  We are divided among ourselves, racially, culturally, and in every other way possible.  People hate each other, and it's getting worse by the day.  I'm afraid to say anything to anyone about anything because I don't want to be accused of being a racist, bigot, or whatever other word they want to call me. 

Maybe I'm like Mrs. Baxter.  Maybe I just want to be "socially accepted" by the winning side. 

I am afraid of losing friends and relationships to the current political and cultural climate.  I want to accept the right of other people to have and express their opinions, but I also fear that if I express mine, I will be attacked and I will lose relationships.  I keep a lot of my politics off of my main Facebook page, but sometimes, I can't always keep my mouth shut or my hands off the keyboard.

African-Americans are hurting.  They deal with generations of racism, and even though the law has mostly outlawed overt signs of racism (e.g. "white only" and "black only" accommodations as one example), the law cannot change the inside of people.  The law can't force you not to be a racist or a bigot.

Hispanics are hurting.  Not every Hispanic in this country is here illegally.    And while I do believe that people in this country should learn to speak English, English is a difficult language to learn and I'm willing to cut people slack while they're learning it.

I believe we are all hurting. And I as a white person am even afraid to say things like, "How can I help?" because I don't want to be accused of being patronizing and/or condescending, like the white person swooping in on a broom to save the day.

I'm extremely discouraged, as I'm sure you can tell.  I feel like nothing I do or nothing I say is going to make one bit of difference, and I fear that I value my acceptance or social standing more than I do my integrity and my convictions on what is right and what is wrong.  I fear that any day now, the literal or figurative Molotov cocktail is going to be thrown that will launch either World War III or the Second Civil War.  I fear that I will have to pick sides, and that no matter what I do, I will lose acceptance.  Sure, it's fine for me to think or believe that I could stand alone if I absolutely had to . . . but I don't know if I could ever be that brave. 

Maybe I'm just as bad as Mrs. Baxter, who wanted social acceptance more than anything else. 

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Should I be a-Mused?

I've been delving into my genealogy using the site FamilySearch.com and have come up with some interesting insights.  For example, my family tree goes all the way back to Adam ben Elohim, son of Elohim and Heavenly Mother.  Eve is listed as having one parent, Adam's Rib. 

While I believe in the Bible and that there was a first couple named Adam and Eve, I'm very skeptical of any family trees giving an unbroken line all the way back to Adam.  I'm also skeptical of family trees containing any royalty unless the lineage is well documented. 

Closer to contemporary times, however, I've found interesting information.  One thing I have learned is that I have several Muses in my ancestry.  There are two jokes you can make about that; one, that I must have many muses for inspiration; two, that I can find things amusing; three, that I can look at people and say, "We are not amused."

Muse is the last name of my great-great grandfather.  His daughter married a Chitwood.  Their son married my grandmother and they, in turn, had my mother.  I don't know very much about my great-great grandfather Muse except names, dates, and locations, but from what I can learn, he seems like he was quite a character. 

For example, he's been known as Christopher C. Muse, C.C. Muse (the name on his marriage record to Nancy Sharp, my great-great grandmother), Christopher Micajah Muse, Micajah Muse, Mack Muse, and Mack C. Muse.  He may also have been known as Cage Muse.

I've discovered two children of his so far; one being my great-grandmother, Mary Etta Muse; the other being her brother, Richard Dow Muse.  According to the information I have, Richard was born in 1876; Etta, in 1881.  Christopher, C.C., whoever he is, and Nancy got married on June 6, 1882, according to the Tennessee State Marriage Index. 

I can't find very much information on Nancy except that she was also married to a man named Blevins and had two other kids with him. 

This branch of my family has roots in Scott County, Tennessee.  Scott County lies just west of I-75, about an hour's drive northwest from Knoxville.  Its name comes from General Winfield Scott, a Mexican War hero (and the county does include a town named Winfield.)  I did a fast Wikipedia search and learned that during the Civil War, Scott County seceded from the state of Tennessee and formed the "Free and Independent State of Scott".  They were a pro-Union enclave during the Civil War.    That proclamation was finally repealed in 1986. 



Reading that story, it makes me think that the people of Scott County had the attitude of, "No one is going to tell US what to do!"  That can be a good thing; it's an attitude that breeds rock-solid convictions and people of integrity who will not be moved no matter what the circumstances. It can also be a bad thing when it breeds stubbornness and sinful pride, and the Bible contains plenty of warnings about sinful pride. 

When Christopher, Micajah, whatever he called himself, decided to refer to himself by various and sundry names, he didn't know that his great-great granddaughter would one day have information at her fingertips that would leave her shaking her head and muttering, "We are not a-Mused." 

On the other hand, it does make me wonder what my great-great grandfather was like and how much the Free State of Scott influenced him! 

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation

Fifty years ago . . .

Fifty years ago this summer, a cream-colored Vista Cruiser station wagon, complete with faux wood panels, containing a husband, wife, and two squabbling children in the back seat, rolled across Tampa Bay and past the sign which announced "Entering Pinellas County."

The Sergent family had arrived, and St. Petersburg, Florida would never be the same. 

I was four going on five.  My sister had just turned eight.  I don't remember anything about the trip.  If we did what we usually did on a road trip back then--started at night so that my sister and I could sleep in the car--then that's probably why I don't remember it. 

I do remember, however, the places we stayed before we finally moved into the house we were renting. 

We stayed, in this order, at the Weary Traveler Motel and the Grey Gull Motel on Madeira Beach and at the Cadillac Motel at the corner of 38th Avenue and 34th Street North in St. Petersburg.  There's a Burger King there now, but the bank next door is still there (although now under different management) and Bert Smith's is still kitty-corner across the street.  When we first moved there, it was Bert Smith Oldsmobile; now, it's Bert Smith BMW. 

And even though I don't remember house-hunting, I do remember an Atlas Van Lines moving truck in front of the house that we moved into.  We rented that house for a few months before we bought it. 

My grandmother had to remind me that she did not make the trip with us.  She did not come to Florida until October (I guess to settle affairs).  I can't remember my grandmother actually arriving and me being glad to see her, but I do remember standing outside the old Tampa International Airport.  Years later, when I was 11 and taking my first commercial plane ride, I was surprised to see how much the airport had changed. 

When I visit St. Petersburg these days, my first thoughts are usually about how much things have changed over the years.  That was especially true on my last visit.  I didn't recognize my old high school, buildings existed along 34th Street that I'd never seen before, and while the public library is still there and hasn't changed on the outside, it's reorganized on the inside. 

I sometimes wonder if life would have been "better" if we'd stayed in Harlan County, Kentucky.  I guess that's normal to wonder when you hit my age, what would it have been like if we had . . . and the only fair answer I can give is, it would have been different. 

When we packed up the Vista Cruiser and drove 16 hours to St. Petersburg, life changed.  It changed us.  We changed St. Petersburg simply by the fact that we showed up. 

Here's a good question for me to ask, though:  Did we change it for the better? 

When we hit town, moved into the new house, started school, started work, whatever it was we did over the last 50 years, did we change things for the better?  Were the schools that my sister and I went to better because we were there?  When our teachers talked about us, did they remember us as decent students?  My father was a teacher at two junior highs and a high school.  Did they remember him as a good teacher?  (At least one of the girls who bullied me in school later told me, when we were both adults, "He was a wonderful teacher."  She also apologized to me for being a bully.)  My mother ended up running a day care; before that, she led my and my sister's Girl Scout troop.  Did they remember her fondly? 

I'd like to think that when that Vista Cruiser rolled into town 50 years ago, we ended up making a difference for the better.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.