Strength of an Eagle
I felt as cold as a tombstone on a winter day.
It was a
feeling of foreboding and dread.
Brett… where's Benny? I asked.
I dunno, he said.
What do you mean you don’t know? You two were playing together. You’re the big brother.
I don’t know. We were hiding in the clothes and I haven’t been able to find him.
I was in a mall with my two sons, Brett and Benny. They were around three and five at the time.
While I shopped in a clothing store, the two of
them played hide and seek amongst the racks of shirts, pants, dresses and coats.
And now... we couldn’t find Benny.
We looked all over the store, sliding hangers to and fro as we searched each clothing display.
But still… no Benny.
Maybe he’s in one of the changing rooms, I said.
We looked in each of them.
But still... no Benny.
He’s got to be somewhere, I said.
I tried to remain calm and rational.
But that was becoming impossible.
The sense of foreboding and dread was unstoppable.
It continued to grow...
And it was awful.
I went to the cash register and asked the manager if they could check their stockroom and employee areas in the back.
Sure, not a problem, she said. I saw you and your boys when you came in. Do you really think the youngest could have wandered back there?
I don’t think so. I just don’t know where else he could be.
We looked in the back of the store.
But still... no Benny.
Maybe he made his way out of the store and into the mall, the manager said.
A three-year-old, I said. That seems so unlikely.
But, nevertheless, we walked out into the mall and looked up and down the concourse.
There were lots of people going about their business.
But still… no Benny.
My heart
continued to sink… and my terror continued to rise.
It rose above me like a giant, rogue wave.
As we looked up and down and didn't see Benny anywhere, the wave crashed down on me.
I felt as tense as a
guitar string and as brittle as a cracker.
It literally became hard to breathe... like someone had me in a chokehold.
I could only take short, shallow breaths.
My heart was racing, but in a weird way.
It was an irregular heartbeat that thumped hard while still skipping beats.
My mind was racing too.
And it was crashing at the same time.
To say I felt unwell is an understatement.
I was beginning to realize that something sinister and terrible was slowly unfolding.
It was like your worst nightmare... only I was awake.
Are you okay? the manager asked, looking worried and stricken herself.
I didn't have the energy to put up a front.
No… I'm not. I’m the opposite of okay.
I understand, she said. Let’s do this. You go that way towards Macy’s, and I’ll head this way towards Sears. We’ll cover more ground that way.
It made sense and I started off moving fast… my eyes sweeping back and forth as I scanned the mall.
The farther I went without
finding him, the more I began to fear the worst.
Someone had taken him.
Someone had taken Benny.
Oh God, no.
The thought chilled me to my bones and made it even harder to breathe.
My heart pounded against my rib cage even harder.
Eventually, I reached Macy’s at the end of the mall.
Still... no Benny.
Starting to panic, I turned around and raced frantically back in the direction I’d come.
I passed the store we started out from and continued on towards Sears.
The
feeling of being unwell had turned into feeling deathly ill.
The emotional pain increased exponentially with every step.
It was awful.
Just when I felt tears starting to come, I saw the manager and a middle-aged, white woman coming towards me.
There was a little boy between them.
The boy was crying.
He had the
frightened eyes of a field mouse.
It was Benny!
He’d gotten disoriented in the store and couldn’t find his brother, or me.
So, he’d wandered out into the mall... then down the upper concourse looking
for us.
He’d ended up in Sears of all places.
The entire ordeal lasted about twenty minutes.
But... it felt like an eternity.
And it felt like hell.
Months later I was telling my Bible class about the experience.
You must have been really relieved, someone commented.
Actually, I wasn’t, I said. The emotions that gripped me that day were so powerful… so intense… so primal… that it took several weeks for them to loosen their grip.
It put a scare into me that lingered for a long time.
Truth be told, all these years later, it's still there to a
degree.
I can still recall the experience in vivid detail.
It was that bad.
That’s why I understand the terrible trauma and pain that Black mothers endured for centuries.
Their children were stolen from them, and often never seen or heard from again.
But their faces
never appeared on milk jugs, or flyers, or on bulletin boards or telephone poles.
It was just the way "good ole America" operated back then.
Slaveowners could take a Black woman’s children and sell them down the road... or river.
Like a chicken... a pig... or sack of corn.
As I mentioned last week, three of Harriet Tubman’s sisters were led away in chains, never to be seen or heard from again.
It’s one of the things that turned her into what she became.
Black Moses.
In one of the stories told about her, a member of the Underground Railroad approached her one night.
Not realizing who it was, and still a fugitive slave with a bounty on her head, Harriet drew her gun and pointed it in his
face.
Moses… it's me... don’t shoot, the man cried.
Harriet lowered the gun and the man let out a sigh of relief.
I… I… thought you were going to shoot me, he stammered.
Don’t worry, she said.
If I knows you…
You’se alright.
But if I don’t knows you...
Well...
You ain’t got long for this world.
Harriet was a tough lady.
A real bad ass.
I share that anecdote to tell you this.
If I had come upon an abductor taking Benny that day…
The intensity of the emotions flooding my body were so powerful…
I would have swooped down on them like a bird of prey.
And as God is my witness,
They would not have long for this world.
Because I would have mauled their ass.
While that may come as a shock to some, those of you who've had small children understand exactly where I’m coming from.
The instinct to protect one's children from harm is
something that's innate.
We're born with it.
But here’s the thing.
Our ancestors had to endure this nightmare for
centuries and couldn't do anything about it.
They were property.
Like a shovel... or rake.
They had no recourse or protection under the law.
They just had to bear these brutal blows on their souls and psyches.
And not for a mere twenty minutes like I did.
They had to endure it for the rest of their lives.
Imagine that.
There are simply no words to describe what that was like.
No words to describe their pain.
So, on this Mother’s Day… think about the Black mothers who came before us and what they went through.
Think about where you came from... and who you came from.
Because, whether you realize it or not,
And, whether you
appreciate it or not,
And, whether you tap into it or not,
As depicted in the painting, Strength of an Eagle,
below...
That strength… is in you too.
