31 August 2008
Through His Eyes
05/09/08 09:00
by
Pat Banta Kreml
Sometimes a brief encounter will leave your life enriched in ways you never imagined.
The day I met Catherine, we were both frightened and alone. Two young girls—one black, one white—both petitioning God in prayer, neither suspecting the extraordinary method He would use to deliver His answers.
That cold February afternoon, I retreated to the solitude of Saint Anne’s Church to be alone with God. Surrounded by stained-glass windows and the lingering scent of incense, I knelt at the communion rail, palms pressed together, and gazed up at the statue of Jesus on the cross. What should I say? So many issues weighed on my mind, and I knew it would take more than an Our Father or Hail Mary to reach the throne of God. I’d only been saved a few months and spontaneous prayer was new to me. How could I verbalize the torment in my soul? I was seventeen, confused, miserable for a thousand different reasons. My boyfriend was pressuring me to go all the way. I feared my future after high school. Even my fledgling faith was in disarray; my heart torn between pursuing my new-found salvation in Jesus or remaining in the religious tradition of my culture.
Everything closed in on me at once. Doubt, fear, loneliness, insecurity—a relentless host of emotions—pummeled my soul. I dared not break the holy silence of the church, but inside I screamed out to God, Help me! I can’t go on like this. What can I do to make this torment stop? Please show me how to make it stop!
I’m not sure what I expected, or how I supposed God would answer me, but no disembodied voice spoke, no statues of Jesus, Mary, or Joseph moved. There were no flashes of light or angelic apparitions. I waited and waited. Nothing happened. The God in whom I timidly hoped remained silent. He had not heard my prayer.
My hands felt numb as I gripped the communion rail and stood to leave. A pew creaked behind me. I froze. I wasn’t alone after all. Had I poured out my anguish aloud without realizing it? I couldn’t be sure. I was mortified. Before I could decide what to do, a muffled cry and gentle sobs rose up from behind me and washed over the ceiling and the saints.
I turned to see a slim black girl—my age, maybe a bit older—seated toward the back of the church. I didn’t know her, but that wasn’t unusual. It was 1968. In the small town of Napoleonville, Louisiana, integration was still new to the public schools, and the church had yet to embrace the concept. Black and white parishioners still sat in separate sections of the church. The races did not mix
Suddenly, that cold, sad afternoon, I could no longer abide such a system. As I walked up the aisle towards this black girl—seated in the white section—I did not hesitate to cross that invisible line of segregation and involve myself in her life. Although I was shy and insecure, I slipped into the pew and sat next to the girl.
“Are you alright?” I said.
She took a few shaky breaths and stared straight ahead.
I tried again, “Is there anything I can do?”
“There’s nothing anyone can do.” Her eyes squinted shut and she sobbed into the plaid handkerchief she clutched in her fist. “My husband kicked me out of our trailer. He locked the door. I didn’t know where else to go.” Her thin shoulders shook from the effort to gain control.
In her desperation, she too had come to seek God’s help. She had cried aloud. I had screamed in silence. But there was no difference in our need or our pain. There was no difference in us. Our skin color made no difference. Until that moment, I had thought I believed that all people are equal: thought myself amazingly liberal in the midst of deep-South bigotry. But I had never acted on that belief. As I witnessed this black girl’s tears, I found myself surprised by how alike we were: same needs, same desires, and yes, the same pain. For the first time, I saw the issue of equality through God’s eyes. I saw the girl’s pain, her need, not her color.
As we talked, she told me her name was Catherine and explained her dilemma. The afternoon was wearing on and she was frightened because she had nowhere to go.
“What about your family? Can’t you stay with them?” I said.
“No. Mama said I couldn’t come back home.” Her voice trembled. “She said after all the money she spent on the wedding, I had better make it work.”
Now I felt way out of my depth. “Maybe you could go talk to your husband.” I said. My suggestion flayed open a wound, and fresh tears rushed over her smooth, brown cheeks.
“I tried. He won’t open the door.”
“Okay. Why don’t you go talk to your mama? Maybe she didn’t really mean what she said.”
“I’m…afraid…too.”
Catherine’s broken heart beat straight into mine, and suddenly I knew what God wanted me to do. “I’ll go with you. Okay? I’ll talk to her for you.” I don’t know which one of us was more surprised by my suggestion, but after a few moments Catherine agreed to give it a try.
When I offered to go, it never occurred to me that Catherine’s mother lived in a section of town that was unofficially off limits to me. Back then, the town was divided into the black section—the quarters—and the white section. My house sat on the edge of the two. As it turned out, Catherine’s mother lived only three blocks way. Three blocks I had never walked down until that afternoon.
I’m sure we were a strange sight as we walked together from the church, through the white section, then the three blocks through the quarters. With racist tempers flaring on both sides, anything could have happened to us, but the Lord protected Catherine and me. I don’t remember what we talked about along the way, but I know I wanted more than anything for God to intervene in her life.
When we stopped in front of Catherine’s house I said, “I’ll talk to your mama if you want.”
“No, I’ll go,” she said.
I guess she was a little embarrassed to be seen with me, so I waited on the sidewalk, and watched as she walked up the front steps. A few neighbors stared, but no one approached. Catherine knocked on the door several times. Finally, a woman answered. They talked, looked over at me, and talked some more. I wasn’t sure what I would do if her mother refused to let her in, but I knew I couldn’t leave Catherine alone.
Finally, she walked down the steps, relief on her face, “Mama said I can stay. I’ll be alright.” She gave me a half-smile, “Thank you,” she said, and turned back towards the house.
My walk back home seemed shorter, lighter. My problems—though still with me—didn’t seem as dire as before. By sharing Catherine’s burden, my own had lightened. God had heard my cry after all.
I never saw Catherine again after that day, but I have carried her in my heart all these years. It saddens me to think that she and I attended the same church for years, yet we never knew each other’s name, never exchanged a greeting, never worshipped side-by-side, never had a chance to be friends. But God is a God of restoration. Today I am blessed to be a part of the Body of Winter Haven Worship Center. At WHWC we celebrate the wonderful blend of people from a variety of races, cultures, generations, and socio-economic levels. We see the beauty in our differences. Here, relationships, friendships, and marriages flourish unhindered by racial or ethnic differences, and the only unwelcome guests are the spirits of prejudice and bigotry. I stand in awe when I realize that all those years ago, God saw where I would be today. He used a stranger to open my eyes to His desire for unity and equality for all people, especially those of His Kingdom. And to that stranger I say, “God bless you, Catherine, wherever you are today.”
Pat Banta Kreml
Sometimes a brief encounter will leave your life enriched in ways you never imagined.
The day I met Catherine, we were both frightened and alone. Two young girls—one black, one white—both petitioning God in prayer, neither suspecting the extraordinary method He would use to deliver His answers.
That cold February afternoon, I retreated to the solitude of Saint Anne’s Church to be alone with God. Surrounded by stained-glass windows and the lingering scent of incense, I knelt at the communion rail, palms pressed together, and gazed up at the statue of Jesus on the cross. What should I say? So many issues weighed on my mind, and I knew it would take more than an Our Father or Hail Mary to reach the throne of God. I’d only been saved a few months and spontaneous prayer was new to me. How could I verbalize the torment in my soul? I was seventeen, confused, miserable for a thousand different reasons. My boyfriend was pressuring me to go all the way. I feared my future after high school. Even my fledgling faith was in disarray; my heart torn between pursuing my new-found salvation in Jesus or remaining in the religious tradition of my culture.
Everything closed in on me at once. Doubt, fear, loneliness, insecurity—a relentless host of emotions—pummeled my soul. I dared not break the holy silence of the church, but inside I screamed out to God, Help me! I can’t go on like this. What can I do to make this torment stop? Please show me how to make it stop!
I’m not sure what I expected, or how I supposed God would answer me, but no disembodied voice spoke, no statues of Jesus, Mary, or Joseph moved. There were no flashes of light or angelic apparitions. I waited and waited. Nothing happened. The God in whom I timidly hoped remained silent. He had not heard my prayer.
My hands felt numb as I gripped the communion rail and stood to leave. A pew creaked behind me. I froze. I wasn’t alone after all. Had I poured out my anguish aloud without realizing it? I couldn’t be sure. I was mortified. Before I could decide what to do, a muffled cry and gentle sobs rose up from behind me and washed over the ceiling and the saints.
I turned to see a slim black girl—my age, maybe a bit older—seated toward the back of the church. I didn’t know her, but that wasn’t unusual. It was 1968. In the small town of Napoleonville, Louisiana, integration was still new to the public schools, and the church had yet to embrace the concept. Black and white parishioners still sat in separate sections of the church. The races did not mix
Suddenly, that cold, sad afternoon, I could no longer abide such a system. As I walked up the aisle towards this black girl—seated in the white section—I did not hesitate to cross that invisible line of segregation and involve myself in her life. Although I was shy and insecure, I slipped into the pew and sat next to the girl.
“Are you alright?” I said.
She took a few shaky breaths and stared straight ahead.
I tried again, “Is there anything I can do?”
“There’s nothing anyone can do.” Her eyes squinted shut and she sobbed into the plaid handkerchief she clutched in her fist. “My husband kicked me out of our trailer. He locked the door. I didn’t know where else to go.” Her thin shoulders shook from the effort to gain control.
In her desperation, she too had come to seek God’s help. She had cried aloud. I had screamed in silence. But there was no difference in our need or our pain. There was no difference in us. Our skin color made no difference. Until that moment, I had thought I believed that all people are equal: thought myself amazingly liberal in the midst of deep-South bigotry. But I had never acted on that belief. As I witnessed this black girl’s tears, I found myself surprised by how alike we were: same needs, same desires, and yes, the same pain. For the first time, I saw the issue of equality through God’s eyes. I saw the girl’s pain, her need, not her color.
As we talked, she told me her name was Catherine and explained her dilemma. The afternoon was wearing on and she was frightened because she had nowhere to go.
“What about your family? Can’t you stay with them?” I said.
“No. Mama said I couldn’t come back home.” Her voice trembled. “She said after all the money she spent on the wedding, I had better make it work.”
Now I felt way out of my depth. “Maybe you could go talk to your husband.” I said. My suggestion flayed open a wound, and fresh tears rushed over her smooth, brown cheeks.
“I tried. He won’t open the door.”
“Okay. Why don’t you go talk to your mama? Maybe she didn’t really mean what she said.”
“I’m…afraid…too.”
Catherine’s broken heart beat straight into mine, and suddenly I knew what God wanted me to do. “I’ll go with you. Okay? I’ll talk to her for you.” I don’t know which one of us was more surprised by my suggestion, but after a few moments Catherine agreed to give it a try.
When I offered to go, it never occurred to me that Catherine’s mother lived in a section of town that was unofficially off limits to me. Back then, the town was divided into the black section—the quarters—and the white section. My house sat on the edge of the two. As it turned out, Catherine’s mother lived only three blocks way. Three blocks I had never walked down until that afternoon.
I’m sure we were a strange sight as we walked together from the church, through the white section, then the three blocks through the quarters. With racist tempers flaring on both sides, anything could have happened to us, but the Lord protected Catherine and me. I don’t remember what we talked about along the way, but I know I wanted more than anything for God to intervene in her life.
When we stopped in front of Catherine’s house I said, “I’ll talk to your mama if you want.”
“No, I’ll go,” she said.
I guess she was a little embarrassed to be seen with me, so I waited on the sidewalk, and watched as she walked up the front steps. A few neighbors stared, but no one approached. Catherine knocked on the door several times. Finally, a woman answered. They talked, looked over at me, and talked some more. I wasn’t sure what I would do if her mother refused to let her in, but I knew I couldn’t leave Catherine alone.
Finally, she walked down the steps, relief on her face, “Mama said I can stay. I’ll be alright.” She gave me a half-smile, “Thank you,” she said, and turned back towards the house.
My walk back home seemed shorter, lighter. My problems—though still with me—didn’t seem as dire as before. By sharing Catherine’s burden, my own had lightened. God had heard my cry after all.
I never saw Catherine again after that day, but I have carried her in my heart all these years. It saddens me to think that she and I attended the same church for years, yet we never knew each other’s name, never exchanged a greeting, never worshipped side-by-side, never had a chance to be friends. But God is a God of restoration. Today I am blessed to be a part of the Body of Winter Haven Worship Center. At WHWC we celebrate the wonderful blend of people from a variety of races, cultures, generations, and socio-economic levels. We see the beauty in our differences. Here, relationships, friendships, and marriages flourish unhindered by racial or ethnic differences, and the only unwelcome guests are the spirits of prejudice and bigotry. I stand in awe when I realize that all those years ago, God saw where I would be today. He used a stranger to open my eyes to His desire for unity and equality for all people, especially those of His Kingdom. And to that stranger I say, “God bless you, Catherine, wherever you are today.”
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