A Moment in Time – June 21th, 2019
June 21, 2019
Preserving The Right Hand of Fellowship
I don’t remember exactly how old I was but I would guess I was
somewhere between the ages of 11 and 13 at the time. That’s the age
young boys can sometimes begin to, as older folks say, ‘smell
themselves.’ Parents who are listening know what I’m talking about. It’s
that age when a boy’s voice begins to change a little. A few straggles of
hair may be beginning to emerge, suggesting the end of boyhood and
the future but not so distant arrival of young adulthood. It’s the age
when a son may be almost as tall as his mother, and foolishly believe
that being the same height means we are on the same level.
I remember playing a game of basketball in my yard with my cousin. I
was losing and I hated to lose. I still do. Back then, I had a propensity to
push out my bottom lip and get a bad attitude when things didn’t go
my way. Hearing my discontent and attitude, my mother said
something to me to correct my misguided frustration. I have never
been short on words and my face expressions typically tell you what I’m
thinking if my mouth doesn’t. Whatever I said back or whatever look I
gave my mom did not rise to the level of the expectations she had for
me. So she gave me an open-hand, top spin slap that would have made
any Wimbledon tennis player proud.
I caught the tail end of the spare the rod, spoil the child discipline
experience.
But on this day, I wasn’t having it.
So I’ll admit: I lost my mind for a quick second and told my mother
“don’t hit me!” And then I saw the look in her eyes: And I saw as it were
a glare of determination mingled with fire and those who stood in her
way would feel her wrath and consternation … my mom went ‘Venus
and Serena’ on me. With each iteration of her right hand, I shouted
louder: “don’t hit me.” And in response she let go another “winner”
that met my cheek like a racket meets a tennis ball.
Now before someone calls the radio station or child protective services
out of concern that this was child abuse, I wasn’t abused, at least I
don’t think I was. I’m guessing the statute of limitations has been
passed for me to report her anyway. And many of us from a particular
generation would admit that we needed the occasional ‘right hand of
fellowship’ from our parents back in the day. I was precocious and
needed to be humbled. I know today is a different day; children call the
police on their parents for far less. I’m not sure what stresses and
frustrations my mom had going on at the time, but I’d think she would
take a different approach if given a second chance at the situation.
Still, the point is clear. Lucy Gene Verneta Douglas—my mother— does
not play. She’s no more than 5’2; in boxing or UFC terms, she’d
probably be a welterweight. The lady is sweet. She will smile at you,
listen to you and give you the shirt off her back if she could. She’s a
gifted, licensed counselor who is one of the most compassionate
people I know. But don’t cross her. She doesn’t play and she has
heavyweight right hand.
Fast forward 30 years and we are back to the Baltimore hospital
context from last week. We had endured a long day as a family, as we
supported my dad who had arrived as an outpatient for an executive
physical and was sent to the ER after the doctor saw his bloodwork.
Remember I told you about the amazing service we received from the
nurses in the ER. All of them were amazing, except one.
There was one nurse, another Sistah, who was not named Sophia! This
nurse seemed to have no context or concern for the stress we had
endured. Nor was she aware of the time crunch we were under to be
discharged, once it was determined that my dad was fit to return to his
executive physical.
The nurse was rude, dismissive and in no hurry as she made her
colleagues wait while finishing up a casual conversation. She then made
the mistake I made at 11 years old. She gave my mom ‘the look,’ the
tone and the attitude that nearly got me TKO’d 30 years ago. I’m not
sure if it was flashbacks from my youth or simply the Holy Spirit’s
prompting, but I saw my mother’s face and sensed the need to quickly
step in before the ER nurse became a patient in the ER. I sought to
preserve the nurse’s health and my mother’s witness as a Christian. My
thought was “Where is Nurse Sophia?”
We walked out of the ER with the rude nurse pursuing and agitating us,
before she sent us off with the facetious declaration of “God bless
you.” You know what I’m talking about: The “God bless you” that ‘nice-
nasty’ pseudo-Christians offer when they are being Christ
misrepresenters. I’m not saying the nurse wasn’t a Christian but she
certainly wasn’t Christ-like at that moment.
Ephesians 6:12 let’s us know that we wrestle not against flesh and
blood but against principalities and spiritual wickedness in high places.
Translation: as humans, we are not each other’s enemies. We all have
moments when we are not walking in the Spirit. There is more going on
in people’s lives than what we see.
I’ve been inviting you all month to live a SALT life—a SALTY life—to be
Salt and Light to the world. You should know that Salt is a preservative.
That’s what we are called to be a Christians. Through the power of the
Holy Spirit working in our lives, we are to preserve and present the love
of Christ in our communities.
Rather than provoking each other to anger or laying hard on the horn
on the highway in response to road rage, today I want to encourage
you to preserve your witness and the peace that you and someone in
your space will need to get through this day.
This is Dr. Ty Douglas, author of Border Crossing Brothas, and I want to
invite you to experience SALT: So Amazing Life Today. It’s available to
each of us in Christ.
This is Dr. Ty Douglas, author of Border Crossing Brothas, and I want to
invite you to experience SALT—So Amazing Life Today; it’s available to
each of us, in Christ.
You can reach Dr. Ty at www.DrTyDouglas.org and follow him at @DrTyDouglas.
Link to purchase Border Crossing Brothas: https://www.amazon.com/Border-Crossing-«Brothas»-Navigating-Critical/dp/1433135388