Kumbaya my Lord, kumbaya
Kumbaya my Lord, kumbaya
Kumbaya my Lord, kumbaya
Oh Lord, kumbaya
Kumbaya my Lord, kumbaya
Kumbaya my Lord, kumbaya
Oh Lord, kumbaya
These are the lyrics to a traditional spiritual finding its
written origin sometime in the early 1900’s and its sung origin likely well
before that. Whether the title lyric is
Gullah or Luvale, we know that it means “Come By Here.” The word itself has taken on its own rhetoric
to refer to situations when peace must be forced, such as the forced moment between
Clinton and Trump when each asked to say “one nice thing about each other,”
their “kumbaya moment.”
That’s how I was using the word last night.
Our family, the 6 of us, were having our bedtime devotion. We did a check in with the kids to see how
they were processing the national news.
Their news sources are weak at best: a clip shown through public school
media and Instagram. (Can you even get
news from Instagram??) They had a lot of
good thoughts, a few immature thoughts, some not-so-well-thought-out thoughts,
and some great questions….
“Haven’t we already settled this?” (you would think…)
“Should I feel guilty about this?” (not guilty, but aware
and troubled)
“Was the statue that important, or was it about something
else?” (it was about symbols)
“Do you think anyone was there peacefully?”
“Yes,” I said. “There
were voices of peace.
People who came with weapons and body armor weren’t exactly there to sing Kumbaya.” (insert eye roll)
...
I didn’t even notice at first. He sings a lot anyway. His bus driver says he sings all the way home
from school. But he kept singing last
night. And then he stood up in the middle
of us, his parents and his older siblings with all of our words, and he kept
singing. His hands were showing us the words
he was trying to pronounce, and as we quieted the tune became recognizable:
someone’s praying Lord, Kumbaya…Oh, Lord, Kumbaya. And when he realized he had our attention, he
started praying.
I pondered my oldest son, a white, middle class, protestant,
straight conservative kid who loves all kinds of classmates who share few of
those demographic traits. His closest
friends do not share those same traits.
I asked him how he had so many different types of friends. He thinks I’m weird for asking. He tells me that music and football and xbox connect
them… “Mom, they’re just my friends.”
I know. Friends are
precious.
Someone’s singing
Lord. Kumbaya. Someone’s singing Lord.
Kumbaya. Someone’s singing Lord.
Kumbaya. Oh, Lord. Come by here.
Earlier that day one of my other sons, by means of
connection through our area United Methodist Youth Fellowship, became the
bearer of news to a girl, a classmate, that her boyfriend had been tragically
killed in a car accident the night before.
The girl did not have her phone and her cousin asked my son to go with
her to break the horrible news. When I
picked my brave boy up from school he said, “Mom, that could be my brother.”
I know. Life is
precious.
Someone’s crying Lord.
Kumbaya. Someone’s crying
Lord. Kumbaya. Someone’s crying Lord. Kumbaya.
Oh, Lord. Come by here.
I giggle at my children as they pick on each other and their
dad and beg for a few more minutes before bedtime. Big brothers, little sister,
typically abled, differently abled, they’ve chosen to love one another as
siblings…and as friends. “Mom! Let’s just stay and talk some more.”
I know. Time is precious.
Someone’s laughing Lord! Kumbaya! Someone’s laughing Lord!
Kumbaya! Someone’s laughing Lord!
Kumbaya! Oh Lord! Come by here!
But I make them go to bed.
Kumbaya is playing in my head. I’m
wondering where he learned that song.
And my thoughts drift back to the headlines of the day. A precious life cut short. A nation embroiled in a war of hate and sin
and evil. And I remember another headline
out of the global news, a teasing headline saying they have eradicated Down
Syndrome in Iceland. I search my phone
and read the article. Again. And again.
Did I read this correctly? Did I
read the CBS news report to say that Iceland has eradicated Down Syndrome by
means of abortion? Surely, I’ve
misunderstood. Surely, I haven’t read the
whole article. And now I am frantically
searching for a counter point of view saying this is eugenics and this is
evil. But it’s not there. It’s elective. It’s choice.
It’s freedom. (These are all
their words!!!!@#!) But I’m thinking
about my sweet boy who just inserted into our very deep conversation about race
and racism and hate and evil the prayer for God to “come by here.” He is sleeping soundly in his bed (or he’s
supposed to be…) not realizing that nations are plotting and applauding the “eradication”
of people like him from their country. I
am numb. My mom called, wondering if I
had seen the headline about Iceland, wondering if she could come get extra
kisses from our guy with extra chromosomes.
“Mama, I’m so so sad and angry and stunned.”
I know. He is
precious.
Someone’s sleeping Lord.
Kumbaya. Someone’s sleeping Lord.
Kumbaya. Someone’s sleeping Lord. Kumbaya.
Oh Lord. Come by here.
And all day today I’ve wondered how to respond. I’m just not a “jump in the fray” kind of
person. I’ve decided to speak out more
than usual. Add my voice to the cacophony,
mostly just as a catharsis for me. But
my primary response will be the same today as it was yesterday as it will be
tomorrow. I will teach my children to
love as they have been loved. I will
teach my children to forgive as they have been forgiven. I will teach my children to be
peacemakers. I will teach my children
that the
I know. And you all
are precious in my sight.
Someone’s praying Lord. Kumbaya.
Someone’s praying Lord. Kumbaya.
Someone’s praying Lord. Kumbaya.
Oh Lord. Come by here.
