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A Bit of History
by Jean Rodenbough
Feb. 8, 2008
[Rev. Jean Rodenbough is active with the Local Task Force of the GTCRP. In addition to being involved in various communities as a pastor and activist, she is also a thoughtful writer. Her thoughts and stories are a welcome addition to our ongoing work of "story-ing" the beloved community.]
He walked into the Emergency Department under his own steam, refusing a stretcher despite the stab wound in his back. A proud man, he had seen trouble during his 58 years but he persisted. I don’t know what the current struggle was about, enough to reward him with a knifing, but as Adjunct Chaplain for the evening I didn’t ask. All I needed to know was that he was here and I was here and there was a story to tell.
Born near the center of town, as a boy he played down by the railroad tracks, he and the boys from his neighborhood and the white boys who lived nearby. Every day that they could, they were together. Well, together until dark settled in, when the white boys went home one way and he and his black friends went another. They knew that the clock monitored barriers between them.
Later, all grown up, he recalls the bus full of folks from his neighborhood and the police chief standing at the door saying, “OK. All you niggers get off this bus now.” He remembers being pushed away time after time from a seat on the bus, or a place in line, or trying to find somewhere to eat. A lifetime of treatment as second-class. His teeth clenched, his lips tight, he told the stories. His eyes betrayed his weariness.
It was the miracle, however, that he wanted to tell me about. “Do you believe in miracles?” he asked me. I was searching for an answer that would be acceptable to him, when he said, “Let me tell you about the time I had a miracle happen to me.” I listened.
Three prisoners in a jail cell, two discussing their faith and the certainty of miracles. “Hey!” one of them asked him. “You believe in miracles?” He turned away. “Naw. Ain’t no miracle gonna happen to me. Tomorrow I’ll be sentenced to eight years. Let me sleep.”
They wouldn’t stop. “Man, you the miracle. Just being you.” He turned over and slept into troublesome dreams.
Next morning in court, he joined others on the bench before the judge. His lawyer was there. Nervous, he visited the restroom. Coming back in, as he started to sit back down, his lawyer came up to him. “You can leave now. Your case was dismissed.” He looked at the lawyer in disbelief. “Don’t ask me why,” came the reply. “I don’t know what happened, but you’re free to go home.”
“Now that’s a miracle,” he told me. “I was gonna spend the next eight years in jail, and instead of that I was free. That’s a miracle...” His voice trailed off. We had prayer together and I left him, to face the new emergencies coming in, wondering where the real miracle was in his story.