In the last two weeks, I’ve heard my brothers and sisters of colour say, “I’m tired,” more times than I can count.
Photo by Ricky Turner on Unsplash
Almost exactly two years ago, a friend and teaching colleague called me out of the blue. She wanted to let me know, voice-to-voice, that another friend of ours had died of a heart attack. It happened near the end of the school year, the busiest time on my calendar, and I spent the next several weeks floating through dozens of tasks I couldn’t delay or ignore. Work, family, report cards, exams, birthday parties. My body was present, but my mind ached. I endured the days by focusing on the times I would get to be alone. That promise of solitude was a light drawing me through the dark tunnel.
I spent hours awake after my family went to bed, mindlessly playing video games and berating myself for the sleep deprivation and its anticipated consequences. I didn’t understand grief. I desperately wanted to keep going at full capacity. I wanted to keep accomplishing tasks. I didn’t realize that I needed the stillness. Perhaps sitting in the emotion, instead of immediately stuffing it, was part of the way forward.
I saw the same pattern emerge in the days after George Floyd’s murder. Finding quiet in the late hours, sitting up and doing nothing. Never actively thinking about the incident, but never being able to sleep. Mentally and emotionally, I slowly started to break down.
Then the messages started coming in. Friends and family who were heartbroken by the incident, so quickly on the heels of the deaths of Breonna Taylor and Ahmaud Arbery. This convergence of tragedies seemed to break all of us down.
I was also seeing it in my wider circle. People of all backgrounds started reaching out to me. Some wanted to process their feelings, some wanted education, some wanted my resources. Some expressed care, some would offer me appreciation. A few even asked how I was doing.
These tragedies motivated many people I knew to immediately diversify their platforms, or to tackle the problem of white supremacy. The messages and requests were coming so quickly, and my brain was moving so slowly. It was hard to know who to respond to.
Past experience around racial conversations has taught me, people you love and admire can be the most hurtful -- often unintentionally. At the same time, people you barely know can say the most poignant and healing things. The playing field is completely even, and you never know what’s coming next. I felt defensiveness rise up within me.
I realized, as a culture, perhaps we don’t know a lot about how to grieve.
At the beginning of Canada's coronavirus quarantine, I came across a couple of podcasts that described this as a season of grief. It was something I hadn’t considered before. Some in our nation have seen major loss -- family members, businesses and jobs. Like many people across the country, my family has suffered the loss of so many smaller things -- birthday parties, graduations and other milestone celebrations.
Many others are sorely missing coffee dates, games nights and warm hugs. I realized this week I have barely acknowledged my own losses, no matter how small they may seem. My busy life (marriage, kids, work and creativity) has demanded forward motion.
I haven’t been able to stop and acknowledge what I am missing. Because I’m not stopping for myself, I have extremely limited capability to put myself in the shoes of someone who has suffered a major loss from Covid-19.
Now, an explosion of racial tension and protest has sparked new layers of grief across the world. Black and Indigenous people of colour (BIPOC) are wrestling with sadness from these recent incidents, including the highly disturbing Amy Cooper video.
In the last two weeks, I’ve heard my brothers and sisters of colour say, “I’m tired,” more times than I can count.
I feel the strain myself. Sometimes I am able to work, and sometimes I need to rest. Normal functioning has been extremely hard. What I’ve said yes to yesterday, I’ve said no to today. I wish I could be more predictable.
What concerns me are the (mostly Caucasian) folks who have messaged me ready to “get down to work” on this problem of systemic racism. I’m so glad there is motivation to consider the implications of systemic racism on your institution. I’ve been here ready to have some conversations for a long time. It’s a pity that your motivation coincides with my grief.
I currently work in weakness. Diminished. Tired. Grieving, and healing. The spirit and the flesh are weak. I need your patience and your care.
This motivation reminds me of a sermon Osheta Moore gave at The Meeting House in Oakville in 2018. She discussed two common responses (from Caucasians) when they are confronted with their complicity with racism.
The first is, navel gazing. This in an immediate turn inward to the distraught feeling over the injustice we are finally noticing. This is often followed with intense self-examination (“Why didn’t I see this earlier? Am I a good person?”)
The second response is jumping into immediate action. Solving the problem, in our mind, is the ONLY way to absolve these feelings. Swift and decisive action is seen as the best way forward.
The issue is, neither of these postures actually involve Black or Indigenous people of colour; and both of these postures are rooted in shame. At the same time, both can unfairly rope BIPOC into harmful situations.
We can be brought into tearful conversations with Caucasians about their feelings, their intentions or their efforts. Or we can receive a myriad of requests for contributions to new initiatives while the wounds society has inflicted still require fresh bandages.
What Moore suggests is the posture of Jesus, and she uses the least eloquent and most emotionally powerful verse in the Bible: “Jesus wept.” (John 11:35)
Jesus wept with Mary and Martha as they grieved the death of their brother Lazarus. Jesus sat with them while they hurt. The early church was instructed to follow Christ’s example and “weep with those who weep.” (Romans 12:15)
Jesus put no burden on the weeping sisters to perform, explain or contribute. What He did instead was slow down enough to show compassion, and to comfort them in a time of grieving.
Jesus prioritized the relationship. He did not, four days after Lazarus’ death, ask Mary and Martha to come on his podcast to describe the emotions of death and discuss the implications of death on larger society. It’s a decent conversation, and Mary and Martha may become experts on the topic, but there is a time and place for everything.
I am so glad there are people ready to move to address systemic racism, particularly in churches. These are issues, mind you, that many BIPOC have been trying to alert you to for a long time. As you have resisted, we have kept trying. It’s been a significant cause of our weariness.
So before you call us to work, contribute or advise, please stop and think of your tired brothers and sisters. Please stop and assume the posture of Jesus. Cry with those who hurt, recognize the grief you are experiencing yourselves, and give it some space. God’s power was not only expressed in the resurrection miracle, but in the humble humanity of quiet care.
It’s time to pause and connect. It’s time to grieve and listen. Working together will mean going slower. Healing is going to take time.