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WE ARE
ALL GOD’S CHILDREN
By Page Johnson
Though my parents
were southerners, I am rootless, having lived the gypsy life of
a military kid during the 1950s. But as we moved from one base to
the next in the summers, we stopped to visit relatives in Tennessee,
Georgia, and Florida. From farmers and railroad men to country doctors,
teachers, and preachers, these men and women of the Bible Belt helped
forge my love of Christ and an enduring sense of honor and duty.
But I was a
white girl growing up in the pre-Civil Rights era of segregated
drinking fountains, bathrooms, and schools. There were white churches
and there were black churches, and if you grew up in a small town,
you knew which was which. “That’s just the way it’s
done,” I was told. Or so it was until one Sunday in 1958,
when I was about ten, and we were driving through north Georgia.
We were a dedicated
Methodist/Baptist hybrid, a family that made it a point to attend
church whenever we traveled, no matter where we were—or even
how we looked. And that could be pretty dicey, since our unairconditioned,
finned Red Plymouth left us rumpled, windblown, and always a little
sunburned. But we “spruced up” for roadside churches
by putting a tie on Dad, a pair of short cotton gloves on Mom, and
shoes with clean socks on my brother and me.
This particular day, we had trouble finding a church that matched
our travel schedule. Already the humidity and the mosquitoes were
unbearable, and we were about to give up when we pulled up to an
unassuming Baptist church. The sign out front indicated services
had already started, so we hustled inside only to realize as we
entered the chapel that we were in the “wrong” church.
Startled faces under hats, and others who were fanning themselves
in the sticky heat turned in our direction, as did the pastor, who
abruptly halted his passionate homily with his arm suspended in
the air.
Awkwardly, we
all looked at each other, trying to comprehend the unthinkable:
a white family standing in a segregated black church way down deep
in Dixie. I have never again felt so out-of-place and unsure of
myself. Do we stay? Do we leave? Can we stay?
Slowly, the
pastor began to smile and then waved us on in with a loud, “Welcome,
Brother!” Black hands reached out to shake ours as we settled
into a worn pew, while other worshippers behind us patted our backs.
An elderly lady handed me a square cardboard fan printed with a
picture of Jesus and the words to a hymn, and that generous moment
is a black and white photograph in my mind. At the end of the service,
the pastor called upon my astonished father to give the closing
prayer—and when it wasn’t quite long enough for this
Baptist congregation, the pastor kindly “finished” it
for him. With warm good-byes, we drove away and never saw them again.
The love and
acceptance we felt that day, the vibrance of the music, and the
eloquence of the speaker, all made a powerful impression on me.
I learned that we all worshipped the same God, that God loved each
of us individually, that good people come in all colors, and that
other little girls who wore petticoats and Mary Jane shoes, but
who happened to be black, also sang Jesus Loves Me. And
I’m still impressed by how well those old church fans worked.
This sense
of God’s universal love and fatherhood, as well as the consequent
brotherhood of man helped me later when I investigated and later
joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. As a member
now for over thirty years, I have never felt the need to abandon
the rich religious heritage of my southern past, any more than blacks
who join the Church should forget their own unique history and identity.
To the contrary, I celebrate even more who I am and where I have
come from, not only because of what I have done with my life, but
also because I recognize that my family’s wonderful religious
traditions actually helped bring me to this point.
Likewise, many
convert black families come from strong Christian homes where generations
of members have been in the ministry, where great music has been
a powerful influence, and where the women have been a dynamic motivating
force. They bring a legacy of faith and commitment, service, and
patient long-suffering to the Church body, and whenever one of these
new brothers or sisters joins the Church, all heads should be turned
in our own congregations to welcome them to their seats--not because
they look out of place, but because they are part of the family.
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© 2003 Meridian
Magazine. All Rights Reserved.
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