My dear friends, let us face the fact that sometimes our sense
of justice can be overpowering—for example, after waiting our turn in a long
line some self-important bully butts in front of us. We burn even though we know
that our sense of justice itself can be an ever-looping curse from hell.
No group of people will ever have an ounce of
energy for creative goodwill if they fixate on personal transactional ledger-sheets
of tit-for-tat favors and affronts. Such behavior
is so taxing partly because a cesspool stupor will haunt the many problematic aspects
of prejudicially perceived equivalence.
I agree that the sin of slavery is open-ended—yet forgive me when I pause
to remark that the pain suffered upon the death of a white Yankee’s son, husband, or father during the War is also open-ended. After some awful things in our lives,
we must decide to affirm and “live for” death or flat-out resume life with a
determination to find joy and renewed generosity even if that means we must discount our awful--even in
some sense, cherished--pain (sort of like when due to lack of space we must trash
photos of mom as a young girl).
Have not we
all loaned something of value to others on the promise of return by date
certain--yet never gotten it back? At that
point we find the wisest approach is to deliberately decide not to allow bad feelings
to consume our lives—often as a sort of backdoor forgiveness saying to oneself—“I remember
never returning my best friend’s baseball cards when we were kids—and probably those
meant more to him then than the money I loaned out ever will.” I don’t mean to trivialize the profundity of
pain, but isn’t something like this truly how often we finally come “to be OK with it..”
after a serious loss?
Obviously I am not enthusiastic over racial reparations.... though I have no justification for my not feeling deep guilt over the sins of the South even though I am Southerner.
Obviously I am not enthusiastic over racial reparations.... though I have no justification for my not feeling deep guilt over the sins of the South even though I am Southerner.
Yesterday, Connie and I were shopping at Walmart in Palmetto. As usual, we went our separate ways in the
store. In the mop and broom aisle I took
keen interest in the display of dustpans.
I wanted a good heavy one with a sturdy handle that would not easily tilt and pitch back onto the floor what I had just swept up. A young black male employee restocking
nearby asked if he could help. He left to do a price check scan on a dustpan that fit the bill. He returned reporting a price
of $18—not too much for one like me especially talented at re-sowing swept-up
trash. I thanked him and he replied “…Anytime
boss.” I said, “Tell you what…I’ll be
your boss if you’ll be my Five-Star General.”
With smiles all round we clinched the deal.
If I were his father, I’d be very proud that I
had a son so pro-active in service. Matter
of fact, it would be drop-dead neat if the next time we meet in response to his "Thank you" to me; I respond "….Anytime
boss.” Whereupon he promptly replies, “My pleasure Mr. President.”
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