I remembered that my mother had told me that she and her mother went to New York City shortly after she turned nineteen to look for work as domestics. Her father had died suddenly shortly before she had turned nineteen. This was at the beginning of the Great Depression and before Social Security began There were no pensions for rural black farmers. So she found work as a live in maid first to an Italian family and later to a Jewish family. She worked in New York for about three years before she cams back to Virginia. I don't know how many years she worked 'in service' here. As I scrubbed I began to think back to my ancestors. And I began to praise God for them.
I began to praise God because they didn't jump off the ships on the way to North America, because even in chains, they could see a future wherever they were going.
I began to praise God because they survived and thrived the horrors of slavery. And that my paternal great grandfather was allowed some degree of freedom to run a small store, setting my grandfather up to be a landowner and an entrepreneur .
I began to praise God because even though none of my grandparents were very educated, they knew enough 'reading, writing, and ciphering,' to get by. And they knew enough about education to insist that both of my parents went to school.
I began to praise God that my parents and a grandparents survived Jim Crow and that they gave me 'The Talk' early and often. They taught me that I had to better, smarter, and more hard working than the white folks. But they also taught me who I was; in Christ and in the family. I was taught to uphold the family name and be a credit to my race. These were survival skills.
I began to praise God because they made sure that I had a spiritual and secular education. And that neither one could ever be taken away from me.
And I began to praise God for every drop of blood that that was shed, the sweat that poured from their brows and the bitter tears that were shed so that I could be free enough to scrub my bathtub in my house, when I felt like it.
But this really wasn't about the bathtub. It was about all of the fears, the pains, and the sacrifices made by those who came before me to get me to where I am today. They fought through so much so that I could live and live abundantly. It pains me to see the violence and bloodshed that plagues our communities every night. And I feel the weight of the grief of our ancestors as we devalue the lives of our own people.
I've been thinking a lot about my father lately. If he was alive today he would be saying, 'the devil is busy.' And he would be looking up to see Jesus crack the sky for the rapture.
Jesus hasn't come yet. And until I see Him come, I'll continue to praise God in some ordinary places!