by Bryan E. Crute
February is designated as a time of celebration and reflection, a time designated as Black History Month. But as our nation continues to be divided along racial, religious, socioeconomic, and a host of other divisive fault lines that constantly threaten to create relationship quakes of epic proportions, I am reminded of my childhood.
I experienced overt racism growing up in a small country town of about 3,000 people. Epithets, dripping with anger and ignorance, were hurled at me on a regular basis and cut me to my core. The old idiom “sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me” just wasn’t true. Being rejected and isolated solely because of my skin color often left me feeling alone and lonely. Why would some of my white friends treat me differently when they were with their parents than when we were in the classroom? It was very confusing for me.
My dad and mom took my siblings and me to Sunday school and church every Sunday. They kept Jesus’ example of love and forgiveness before us, along with their support and love. This laid a foundation for…Continue Reading