It is spring, with blooming trees and flowers (and pollen
and weeds), windy days and nights, and temperatures edging up. Spring is a kind
of midpoint. The change between winter and summer is most enjoyable, usually
only short-term, but still quite pleasant.
After more than a year of COVID with its closures,
masking, and complete change in ways of life, it would seem that this spring
would be a happy time for people. They can get out more (hopefully obeying the
mask and social distancing protocols), plan for reunions long denied, see items
that were in short supply becoming more available, etc. That doesn’t seem to be
good enough, though. Mass shootings are up, increased examples of demands for
privilege, images of violence and hatred
constantly on the media, and protests on behalf of members of various races and
cultures increasing as instances of bias and hate grow against them. It is
beginning to feel like the primary color of spring is now blood red.
Growing up, we never heard the word diversity. Granted,
we all knew what segregation was, and we children were taught that it was just
the way life was, at least in the part of the world I lived in. My parents
taught me to be polite to the Irish and Scottish family up the street,
respectful of elders, and kind to the Black citizens of our town. The latter
lived in the next street or even next door. That didn’t mean we shared
churches, schools, or facilities at the bus or gas station. It took a lot of
education before I began seeing the wrongs of the society in which I had
belonged.
The last time I went home to Virginia, I noticed many
changes, including acceptance of diversity in a much more significant
proportion than I had learned growing up. There was more education about the
place of Black Americans, Native Americans, and others in the history of our
area for about four hundred years. It
wasn’t superficial teaching but a real emphasis on a hidden part of our
history.
The last time I
was back home, I walked down the beach that bordered my river and suddenly saw
some familiar things differently. I didn’t just see debris; I saw a diversity
that had a beauty of its own. There were whole shells and bits of others, often
translucent jingle shells or heavier pieces of clam and oyster shells. A red
bit was a piece of fired brick, edges worn down and smoothed off by the power
of the waves. A tiny dead crab exposed its underbelly to the sun as it rested
among the strands of eelgrass that seemed to frame most of the wrack that had
washed up at some time or other.
I’ve thought about that memory quite often over the
years. When I think of it, I can almost hear the wind, smell the salt water,
and appreciate the many bits and pieces that formed such a vivid image. How
dull the beach would be if there were only grains of ground-up quartz and other
bits of stone that made the sand. It took diversity to give the whole an
unforgettable beauty.
I think I have to remember that beach when I look around
me. Like the jingle shells, some people seem to let the light shine through, brightening
the world. The clam and oyster shells
are like those who feed both humans and sea creatures, with covers that can be
used in many ways after the shellfish they had protected have been consumed.
The brick piece is like a person who builds and protects, enabling us to live
in safety from predators, wind, and weather. The eelgrass provides hiding
places for sea creatures like the little crab, feeds sea birds, provides
stuffing for mattresses, roofs a cottage or house, serves as food, and helps
keep the bottom of the river stable.
I need to look at people and groups in much the same way.
No matter how different they may appear, each person is a child of God, created
to live in other places and ways, yet with value beyond what we may see. Like
the wrack at the beach or colors of paint, the beauty and usefulness are in the
diversity, just as God planned it. Some may be more beautiful or talented or
even useful, but each has a purpose, even those who seem to have little or
none. A tramp and a queen are equal in God’s eyes, as they should be in
ours. The famous verse from John, “For
God so loved the world…” seems to mean not only the physical appearance and
status of the planet but all things in and on it, including people.
Sit with the picture of the beach for a few minutes. See
what part of it speaks to you, and then contemplate why that is. Then go out
and look for someone or something in your part of the world that reflects that
part. Take the object into your soul and let it lie there. Keep looking for
other reminders of what is in your soul that may need to refresh itself or
perhaps become part of how you see the world. Incorporate the examples you find
into your prayers and daily life. It’s another way of recognizing how much
God’s love permeates everyone and everything, and you are a part of that love.
Happy beachcombing!
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