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A number of years ago, I was the guest preacher at one of our small congregations in northern New England. Read more →

Twenty inches isn’t all that high. It’s less than two feet. My daughter was 20 and ½ inches long when she was born. But when you are staring at a black box twenty inches high and you’re supposed to jump on top of it and land on your feet and you’ve never done anything like that in your entire life, it feels impossible.

It feels like if you were actually able to get on top of the box, you would immediately fall backwards, crack your head, become a spectacle.

I will never forget the triumph I felt when I jumped onto the 20 inch box at my gym for the first time. I was so afraid of falling that I asked another woman to stand behind me. I didn’t need her. My arms went back behind me, my legs bent strong, and I was up! I stood tall on that box and felt like I could do anything in the world.

That feeling came rushing back the other when I watched another woman, new to the gym, conquer the box. She had been eyeing it during the whole class, doing her jumps on a lower step. I could tell she wanted to try the higher box but was afraid to do so, just as I had been. At the end of class, she practiced on the step one more time and then, determined, stood in front of the box. She took a deep breath. Her arms went back, her legs bent strong and she was up! She threw her arms up in delight, let out a yell, and we all cheered.

We knew the feeling: fears faced, doubt banished, power coursing through a body we are learning to trust, to delight in, to love.

Twenty inches is higher than we think.

Yesterday after church, my family and I stopped at a favorite cafe in Hartford. It’s a funky kind of place with a diverse clientele and a good Sunday brunch. I walked in while my spouse got the baby out of the car. I asked a white woman who was standing by the door whether she was waiting to be seated. She directed me to the counter where I was greeted by the hostess:

“Hi there, will you be joining us for brunch today?”

Me: “We’d like to. What’s the wait like for two and a baby?”

Hostess: “We can seat you right away when your party is complete. Do you need a high chair?”

Me: “Great! They’ll be here in a minute. And, yes, a high chair would be great.”

Hostess: “Wonderful! Let me just get a high chair and get your table set up.”

Now, there was the other white woman waiting near me and there were three tables open: two two-tops and a four-top. While I was talking to the hostess, an African American man had come in the door and was standing behind me. The white hostess walked away (to get our high chair) without acknowledging him. Her white co-worker stepped up to the counter just as the man did, greeting him with a very different tone that can only be described as “icy,” saying:

“Are you all set?”

Customer: “Well, I wanted to have a seat.”

Hostess 2: “We are just serving brunch right now, is that what you wanted?”

Customer: “Yes.”

Hostess 2: “How many in your party?”

Customer: (Holding up one finger and his laptop) “Just one.”

Hostess 2: “We have nothing open right now, do you want to give me your name?”

Customer: (Looking at three open tables and a completely open counter.) “No. Forget it.”

And he left.

The original hostess came back seconds later just as my spouse and baby came in. We were seated right away at one of the open tables with a high chair. Soon after we sat, the other white woman’s friend who was African American joined her, and they were seated at the other two top.

The restaurant buzzed with conversation. People’s food came. Our waiter took our order. My daughter ate Cheerios with abandon; my spouse looked at the menu; and I sat there trying to process what had just happened.

I wasn’t sure what to think about it then, and I’m not sure what to say about it now, except that it hurt my heart. Oh, we could talk through the myriad reasons why the second hostess may have greeted the customer who came after me in such an unprofessional manner. And we could talk about the complexities of restaurant seating, who comes first, holding tables for waiting parties, not seating one person at a four-top. (Full Disclosure: I hated being a hostess.) And we could say that she might have had the exact same interaction with a white person, maybe that’s just her style. Or maybe the dude just decided he wasn’t in the mood for brunch anymore, but I don’t think so.

Instead, I think that I witnessed one of many “micro-aggressions” that people of color experience on a daily basis. (Read more on micro-aggressions here.) After what I saw yesterday, I understand even more clearly how such interactions take their tole, day after day, year after year. It is worth saying that women and LGBTQ people share this experience, albeit in different ways. (I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve been told how surprisingly insightful my sermons are for a young woman.)

Yesterday, I did not know how to respond to what I saw. We debated leaving. We debated saying something. But I didn’t know what to say, and I am not sure yet what I would have or should have said. I regret, though, not saying something.

I wonder how many people have received a similar unwelcoming “welcome” on a Sunday morning at church. No matter how hospitable we may want to be, it is quite possible that we may greet visitors and long-time members alike with unintentional micro-aggressions. Sunday morning – be it at brunch or Sunday services – is a time to widen our welcome as we greet all who come through our doors with equal respect and genuine hospitality.

I, myself, am working to examine my own interactions with all sorts of people, on the look out for times when I may be, despite my best intentions, a “micro-aggressor.” The work of dismantling racism starts with adjusting how we see our world and shifting our (inter-)actions toward openness, welcome, and love.

Last year, the rhododendron in front of our house was a sorry sight. Spindly branches and yellow leaves, a couple scraggly blooms. I half-heartedly attempted to help it out by sprinkling our used tea leaves on it (I vaguely remembered something about acidity being good for flowering plants). But by the fall, it was in such bad shape that I thought about asking our landlord to just take it out.

Then, in November, just before our daughter was born, my parents came to visit for a week. My father, a masterful diagnostician of people and plants, took one look at the rhodo and prescribed coffee grounds (I was right about the acidity). Every day that week, he dutifully sprinkled coffee grounds around the base of the plant. Then the baby was born; the weather turned colder; the snows came; and I forgot completely about the rhododendron.

Until now! This past week it exploded with blooms and new growth–healthy and vibrant and just beautiful!

My family will most likely be moving at the end of the summer–just as we’ve got the hang of our tiny little shared plot of earth, just as the rhododendron has come to life. I hate to leave it. But I like to think that next family to move into our apartment might just fall in love with this old house because of the beautiful flowering plant out front.

This week, when friends and acquaintances greeted me with the standard “How Are you?” I answered honestly. My answer wasn’t the standard “Good, good. You?” Our family has had more than our fair share of bad news of late, and it has begun to take its toll. Add a new baby and my spouse finishing his graduate program and a dual job search and I had a lot to say to the question that has become a rote greeting.

I felt self conscious though, about actually answering the question. “It’s a tough time,” I said, slipping in an “I’m sorry” and even an “I’m sorry for answering you honestly,” and when I did share some of what’s going on, a sheepish “That’s probably more than you wanted to know!” I am so grateful that more than one person thanked me for answering honestly, for being real, for being myself. They thanked me and they listened.

I wonder why I felt the need to apologize. Was I really so worried that people didn’t care how I actually am? Is it really that hard to cross the line between social convention and intimacy? It’s got me thinking about how we all have the opportunity to minister to people in our lives. It starts so simply, with asking “How are you?” And really wanting to know.