Author: alwaysbridging

Early during our pilgrimage, seemingly long ago, I had the chance to lunch with Peri, our Atlanta-based imbedded tour guide.

I was excited when I realized I could treat her to lunch, then immediately dismayed when I also realized my wallet was not in my purse. Instead I was embarrassed to ask her to front me. Apparently, her first concern was that I stay relaxed enough not to spin out on her, which would have certainly been an option in that moment. We called the bus driver first and had him check every crack and crevice in the bus…maybe I had misplaced it there. But no such luck.

I had not put cash in separate bags like I usually do so started thinking of blessed friends on the trip who knew I was an ok risk for a loan. When I told Peri I had an albeit-ragged copy of my passport in my suitcase, she said “Oh, no problem, that i.d. will get you home. “ Yeah, right. Still her confidence soothed me.

Long, wild story short: When we were waiting for the bus after lunch, my husband called from Seattle to say an Irene had phoned from the Carter Center where we had been that morning. My wallet had been found in the rose garden and she had it.

I was back in Money and Identification Land.

I share this story of Grace (and privilege) to describe Peri Frances. If you have the chance to travel anywhere with her, run to sign up! She is remarkably organized, knowledgeable, and fun. She is a business owner of great warmth and patience.

I could not be more grateful for her time and attention.

The day before we arrived in Birmingham, I had weathered the National Memorial for Peace and Justice in Montgomery where 4,000+ lynchings of Black men and women are commemorated. I couldn’t imagine anything worse.

I filed into “The Experience Room” at 16th Street Baptist Church with my fellow pilgrims, sitting front and center, innocently, until that bomb exploded. Even though it was a mere enactment, I was stunned and left choked up most of the afternoon. Children wiped away. Their dear mothers keening.

Thank God we arrived at nearby Camp McDowell that night for the Sabbath.

We returned for the “regular” service the next day; for me, it was anything but the usual fare. Sweet release had started on the bus while rolling into town with my mates. Twenty minutes of meditation and my tears had finally flowed freely. Then we were welcomed and folded in for Worship, complete with live jazz accompaniment and a sermon that was out of this world. And those little kids, dressed to the nines, with their parents and grandparents, were all around me. They had returned to church, trusting enough that all was well.

It was a blessed paradox to me…a testimony that healing is even possible.

Yesterday I noticed my increasing haze. After hearing the personal stories of Dianne and Annie Pearl, women who participated in the marches 60 years ago, and visiting the Voting Rights Museum and National Historic Trail, I was yawning mightily.

We took a break for lunch on the banks of the Alabama River, under the shadow of the Edmund Pettus Bridge. The clouds were magnificent and I enjoyed the company of my fellow pilgrims. I thought maybe my increasing fatigue just signaled that I needed a good ol food-induced nap.

But I hung in through the worsening gruesomeness. What were they thinking? Could we humans really be so mean and cruel to each other? It’s no wonder I was sinking.

I leaned into the sun-soaked window on the bus, barreling down highway 80 en route to Montgomery with the others. I watched the markers roll by signifying the campgrounds of the foot soldiers when they marched those same 54 miles. And by God’s Grace, I started thinking about my first drive into Jerusalem. My feelings broke through.

What an odd comparison – Jerusalem and Montgomery. Truly though, not so unusual after all. I suspect today we must bare more pain. The lynchings are coming; I can feel ghosts hanging all around me here just as Jesus hung on that tree in another holy city.

My prayer is to stay present and breathe. I want to submit to the sadness and let these tears fall.

Lament and release.

I am on a bus riding along, crossing soon from Georgia into Alabama. I’m one of 37 on a Civil Rights Pilgrimage from the Episcopal Diocese of Olympia in Washington State. We are following the life of Martin Luther King, Jr from his birthplace in Atlanta, through Selma, Montgomery, and Birmingham to Memphis where he was assassinated.

Yesterday, while at MLK National Park, I found myself watching a video of King’s daughter interviewing Jimmy Carter. I berated myself a bit at the time. Why was I drawn to listen to another white man, when surrounded by incredible stories of great African Americans? Maybe, because it was actually his 100th birthday?

Today though, it occurred to me: I’m white. This work of healing racism is hard. Sometimes I get discouraged in the face of it. Seeing how another white person like me, of the utmost privilege, lived his faith balls-out lovingly…it’s downright encouraging.

I am reminded how important it is for my Black brothers and sisters to see themselves in leadership. This is the impact a diverse team can have because…

Sometimes we get discouraged and think our life’s in vain. And then the Holy Spirit revives our souls again.

After a spectacular week in Richmond, Virginia, one of reunions with cousins and high school chums and even a seminarian, I am feeling overwhelmed.

As I reconnect with family and friends here as well as try to continue the relationships I touched in Virginia, I am reminded of Dunbar’s number, that we humans are really only capable of maintaining 150 relationships. Have I exceeded my limit? As an extrovert and Child of God, I hate to think my capacity for others has been reached.

Eventually as I ponder, I recognize my appreciation for the expansiveness of prayer. And thankfully, I too have had a Thomas Merton experience. Once at the cathedral when 200 or so of us were gathered for worship, I looked around and realized I knew the stories of joy and sorrow of about half those around me. I bathed in the deep loving care I felt for these dear ones. Then in a mere blink of an eye, I noticed the others and knew their stories were similar. I was absolutely flooded with warmth and intense love for all of them too. Time stood still.

Perhaps, as Dunbar suggests, in my human-ness I am only capable of maintaining 150 relationships, even with the help of social media. But in God-space with a wide-open heart, my fond connections are limitless and I can love billions.