The Bedside of America
Our collective hearts are shattered and confused by the death of George Floyd. Watching the video of his death reflects something so wrong about what humanity is capable of. The cavalier stance of suffocating a handcuffed man by kneeling on his neck despite his plea is beyond comprehension, and has ignited a fever of grief and frustration all across our country. Our cities resembled a war zone as thousands sought to be heard among others who sought to destroy. We are at a crossroads.
The chatter among us is anything but unified. Many I know support the protesters whose stance against the senseless death of Mr. Floyd touched the underbelly of unresolved pain and longevity of racial injustice in America. Others I know resent the Black Lives Matter movement; wishing instead to circumvent the opened wound of our nation by expanding the conversation to include black on black crime, media bias, or white privilege debunking.
I understand the issues before us are complicated. Layer upon layer of belief and judgement have cemented themselves over the smoldering lesion of our nation for a long time. The room for compassion has been squeezed out by the need to be right. Passions run high, but I fear we are all missing the opportunity to help our country restore and rectify our grievances.
It’s like if your child suffers injury from a car accident. The temptation to admonish him for not being more careful, express anger at him for not wearing a seat belt, or rest in resentment for the other driver can become a barrier to the real issue at hand. Your child is hurt, and must navigate the difficult road of healing. You can only minister to him when you place yourself at the bedside of his pain and make the challenging decision remain in empathy, allowing the compassion of a heart to beat louder than the bellow of a mind. Only then can a plan for rehabilitation be born.
My mission as a writer is to find hope in all things; turning each stumbling stone to find the promise offered in every moment. The death of Mr. Floyd, however, is profoundly tough. I think about his family and cannot imagine their pain. His voice was silenced beneath heavy and misguided authority. Within the loud chatter in the aftershock of his death, I think about his young daughter and the yoke she must carry in the legacy of his struggle for breath.
We are all challenged all to remain at the bedside of Mr. Floyd’s family, and those among us who have felt marginalized because of the color of our skin or the neighborhood where we live. Many are already showing us the way. Police officers who kneel with protestors, a mayor who speaks to her constituents with the tone of a loving mother, and George Floyd’s brother who so eloquently called for calm amidst his grief are charging the rest of us to better ourselves. Thousands of strangers walk side by side connected in fellowship. Regardless of where you stand on the spectrum of opinion, people are hurting. Intentional kindness and understanding must be the first line of response if we are to move on towards better days. It’s not always easy to lead with empathy or stay with the discomfort of pain, but our nation is injured. The search for unity must be louder than the muffling impasse of disagreement.
The opportunity for angry words to rest upon the ears of a compassionate listener is disarming and allows space for gentleness to cloak the wounded who walk among us. Until we can all get our bearings, we must remain at the bedside for one another. It is there that hope can rise again.
Anne Marie Romer is a Regular Community Contributor and author of the book, Just Give Me the Road. Her blog can be found at annemarieromer.com.