The Color of Life by Cara Meredith

Author:Cara Meredith
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Zondervan
Published: 2018-12-25T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 11

Imago Dei

I sat poolside on a hotel rooftop in Birmingham, Alabama. My feet dangled in the water as the boys swam in the kiddie pool with their older cousin James, hot southern sun beating down on us all. The heat was just right—not too hot, not too muggy. I could live here. I could do this, I thought. The kids shrieked and yelled as they raced from one end of the pool to the other, joy their constant companion, an undeniable bond of kinship theirs alone.

With one eye on the boys and one on my book, I stole glances toward the water after every paragraph, oblivious when my father-inlaw walked over and sat down on the lounger to my right.

“So,” he said to me, the word a sentence in and of itself. Whenever James and I flew from the West Coast to the South once or twice a year, we steadied ourselves for The Talk, when the great patriarch sat down to chat with each of us separately. It was here that a bearded old man dressed in khaki pants, long-sleeve white-collared shirt, black velcro tennis shoes, and a straw hat sat next to a middle-aged woman clad solely in a black bandeau swimsuit from Target.

“So, how are you?” I replied, ready for his words.

“You need to give them more credit,” he said, pointing toward the water. He paused in thought. This is how Granddaddy speaks: although he knows what he wants to say, his words do not come quickly. He is southern to the bone, slow like a spoonful of molasses. He chews each thought; he kneads each point. And each pause feels like an eternity to me. “They know. They already know. They get it. They see color.” His fingers jabbed the air with each point, begging me to understand. “And you have to give them credit for what they already know, for who they already are.”

I ripped out a page from the back of my paperback book. “May I borrow a pen, sir?” I pointed to the handful of pens tucked into the pocket protector of his shirt. Whatever he had to say, I needed not to forget it anytime soon.

“You dealt with the issue, which was you. No one understands the depths of the race issue because they haven’t lived it; they haven’t experienced it like you have.”

“But I—”

He held up his hand to stop me. It was not my place to disagree or interject. My job was to listen.

“Lincoln and Obama hold one thing in common: they were voted into office for unresolved issues of race. And these issues are gonna remain.” He paused. “But your study of religion, the training you have received, plays a bigger part in this discussion. So stop worrying about too many things! Stop trying to solve the things that are out of your control. But do understand how much they already know. And do understand how much you already know too.” He pointed again to the boys and then to me, my pen scribbling furiously on the worn piece of paper.

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