Dinner with Colin

pasta-spaghettimeatballs

Dear Colin,

You don’t know me. I don’t know you. But I want to have you over for dinner. I make a mean pasta sauce with hand rolled meat balls. Lots of garlic. I would spend all day simmering my sauce and cleaning my house. I’d get out my good dishes and cloth napkins. The candles would be lit and I’d ask Alexa to play some nice jazz.

Honestly, none of that would matter though. You see, I merely want to listen to you. While I have a plethora of questions tumbling around in my head, I truly just want to listen.

I read it this week. The war poem penned by Francis Scott Key back in 1814. All four stanzas. I read it and reread it. I begged my mind to open up, my presuppositions to fall away and my emotions to stand down. I read Key’s own words and studied his cases as a prominent D.C. lawyer. I’ve spent days arguing with my inner self over this information.

I’ve also followed your story, your brave actions on behalf of marginalized Americans. You inspire me to listen. To ask, to seek, to cry.  I desperately want to see real change.

What can I do? I’m not famous, I’m not rich and I feel powerless. I’m just a regular white woman. Yet, I realize that sounds like a lame excuse. I want my cage rattled so the angry lioness will roar, not to attack with violence, but to speak with empathy and concern for my neighbors and friends.

I am so sorry. But I’m listening, reading, watching, poised to act. Why 400 years seems to never end. Why it just morphs into something else. When will we stop the rhetoric, set aside this absurd not-so-merry go round, and actively listen. How long is it going to take? How many more funerals do there have to be?

So, if you get this message, come on over. I promise to give you a genuine hug, an amazing meal, and two willing ears.

Yeah, I think we could be great friends.

May all your days be filled with hope, joy, and peace.