Rebuilding
About a week ago, I was sitting in my mother-in-law’s house chatting in the quiet hours of night after the kids went to bed. I was talking about the events of that rainy day and what the kids and I had gotten up to outside, wandering the woods and fields of her country property, exploring and getting as wet and muddy as possible. I told her that as I photographed some moments of the day, I found myself thinking about her late husband, who died about four years ago when our firstborn was only about eight months old. Her husband loved that property and cared for it well. He especially loved the small patch of forest behind the house, and just before he got sick, he had been slowly clearing a path through the woods—he, who had had several hip replacements yet didn’t let chronic pain stop him from meaningful labor. I had the privilege of walking down that path with him once—he pointed out to me one tree after another, talking about them as if they were his dear friends. He was aware of their history: how they had changed over the months or years, if one had been hit by pestilence or by lightening. He recognized them, knew them, the same way he could identify a bird simply by its flight pattern: he payed close attention. That path is long grown over now, but the memory of this vibrant, extraordinary man only grows more vivid. I cried as I told mom that I wished the kids and I could walk that path with him; they had never gotten to know him—what a missed opportunity worth mourning. As grief was made fresh in that moment, I thought anew about loss. We are bolstered, built, changed, transformed by love. And when we lose a precious life, we lose the opportunity to be changed, to be bettered, by that love. It’s a deeply personal loss.
And then I immediately thought of Aumhad Aubrey.
It is impossible to fathom the loss this world has experienced by the absence of this man’s love. What transformation might have been made in the lives of those near to him, and in the world by exponential impact?
Even since the recent mourning of this man’s death, there has been yet another murder. His name is George Floyd. I am enraged. I am grieved. I feel lost, hopeless, fearful. Powerless.
This morning, I started reading the biblical book of Nehemiah. Just in the first four chapters, I have been sobered and encouraged by his story and its part in the rebuilding of Jerusalem and God’s people.
First of all, Nehemiah seems to be an ordinary man. Cupbearer for a king—a trusted position, but still a simple laborer. Not a prophet with a prophecy on his tongue, but with an essential commission from God nonetheless. He sees a need for change and is moved to personal action.
Then, of note, he starts his entire work of rebuilding with confession of his sins and the sins of God’s people: please forgive our failings, and be gracious to fulfill your promises despite our unworthiness.
It had been something like 150+ years since the walls had been destroyed, and 13 years since Ezra had been given the funds to rebuild the temple. What a monumental task, to rebuild this wall, this city, this people. To bring restoration, unity, and hope. Overwhelming. This is how it feels when I see what is happening in my country and wonder what I can do to affect change. In this pondering, I find Nehemiah chapters three and four moving and challenging.
When rebuilding commences, small groups of people or individuals choose a starting point—a gate, or their district, or even a piece beside their house—and do what they can with it, often expanding to adjacent portions of the city. They are ridiculed as they work by those who are threatened by the strengthening of this people and their city. They face physical as well as emotional threat from these perpetrators who “plotted together to come and fight against Jerusalem and stir up trouble against it” (4:8). And yet, they pray, trust God, and “the people worked with all their heart” (4:6).
This feels like a doable directive. Go outside your door, Laura, and rebuild the part of the wall that is in front of you. And when you finish that section, see what you can do about the part next to it, and next to it, and next to it. One brick at a time.
I’m not a Bible teacher. I am not an activist. I haven’t done diligent anti-racist work. I have the luxury of “putting this out of my head” when it gets to be too much, and then I neglect to recognize that it is indeed a luxury. I don’t understand and can’t explain why these things continue when I know that my good and loving God is grieved and angered by the incalculable losses that are the lives of these recently murdered men. But as far as I can comprehend, God is passionate about defeating and healing from racism, and we have been called to participate in this essential work, without excuse.
I want to start with the broken bricks at my own home.
“Then I said to them, ‘You see the trouble we are in: Jerusalem lies in ruins, and its gates have been burned with fire. Come, let us rebuild the wall of Jerusalem, and we will no longer be in disgrace.’ I also told them about the gracious hand of my God on me and what the king had said to me. They replied, ‘Let us start rebuilding.’ So they began this good work” (Nehemiah 2:17-18).
