“Can I help you?”
I shook my head no, his reply made me grin.
“Y’all just out playing?”
I laughed. He hit the nail on the head. The Martins had loaded up for an afternoon trip to the big box store that I despise, so Scott Martin and I thought we would introduce our 3 to a hidden gem shared by the same city as the Big-Box-hate-it-store.
As we meandered north on the interstate we were questioned multiple times about where we were going. I wasn’t exactly sure how to answer so I just said, “We’re going North to run a few errands.”
We pulled into a parking space a little after four, Scott made note of the time,
“They close at five.”
I was standing just inside the entrance when I met the nail-on-the-head hitting Proprietor. He introduced himself by his first name, offered us light snacks and gave us a quick rundown of all the things to see. I said thanks and told him we were the Martins.
“Welcome Martins.”
In no time the history, weird object loving, have to touch it to actually see it, Martins realized we weren’t just on an errand, we had opened the door to a treasure trove. They were amazed by the huge doors and obsolete fixtures. The loose keys and endless supply of oddities. They are scavengers, they love a treasure and an oddity. I reckon they get that from their Mama. I too, love the very same things. As we meandered down rows and aisles, gigantic doors and ornate everythings, we picked up and held hinges and door knobs (the one who resides on the autism
spectrum was especially fascinated by the doorknobs), all manner of locks, things that were vaguely familiar and some that were not.
We decided on a fire brick, it had our name stamped on it. “Martin” in a nice font. We got a broken one, it cost less.
We ventured into rooms and eventually made our way to another room. Comparatively speaking it was a bit more sparse. There tucked away in a corner as if it had been put in time-out for bad behavior was a rusted door with the faded word “Colored” on it.
I stopped in my tracks. I walked closer and touched the letters, almost as if I were trying to discern if they were real. My eyes quickly fell to the “Not for Sale” note and the words that had been placed there by the original finder of the door. The note confirmed I was not the first to stop dead in my tracks in front of it, and it asked a question I have continued to ponder.
I traced the letters again and I wondered what all they’d witnessed. How many dark and worn hands had touched them in submission, in disgust, in fear, in outrage and maybe even in hope. Hope that one day such an object would be unnecessary, unwanted, appalling and obsolete.
I called the Martins over to me and their reactions were surprising to me. I had expected outrage, I had expected anger, but that is not at all what I got. They walked up took a closer look for themselves. After I read the letter out loud to them and snapped a picture, the three of them were soon off to see other more intriguing oddities. I stood a moment and pondered the door, my children,… I pondered much.
As the evening moved on and we left with more than our share of complimentary goodies, the firebricks and a couple of metal letters. I thought about that letter on the door and the challenge it posed,
“Do you keep the writing on the door showing an era in America’s history or do you erase the words to not promote such a negative time in America’s history?”
I was undecided in the beginning. As a mama of multiracial children I want nothing more than to protect them from the hate of this world, the hate of our history even. I never want them to feel they are anything less than the beautiful humans they are. My first reaction, my knee jerk reaction as they say, “Paint it. Sand it. Erase it. Get rid of it.”
For the record, my knee jerk is rarely right.
As the night went on I realized what my children must’ve realized but weren’t able to verbalize. It was a terrible part of our history but it is our today that matters most. They are a living, breathing testimony to that. That door did not represent hate to them because they are no different than their lighter skinned brother, mother and father. They are Martins just as much as we are. There is no distinction between us. We are one family.
The King restored Hope when He designed our family. What was meant for evil and done in hate, He is redeeming for good and for love’s sake, one day at a time, exchanging hate for Grace.
My answer to the question? Keep it. Keep the letters as a testament to redemption and grace. Acknowledge that hate once prevailed and moved forward with the knowledge that it doesn’t have to. Exchange the hate for love one door at a time.

“Do you keep the writing on the door showing an era in America’s history or do you erase the words to not promote such a negative time in America’s history?”
Those tiny butterflies were traveling to Mexico. Many had already come long distances. Some had flown all the way from Canada. How do they know where to go? There are only a few mountains in central Mexico where Monarchs migrate for the winter. The oyamel fir trees provide the perfect place for them to survive. These butterflies will never return to the beaches of Pensacola because when it is time to migrate back to the summer places, they lay eggs and those little caterpillars grow and then form their chrysalis where they blossom into a beautiful Monarch butterfly. It can take 4 or 5 generations of Monarchs to get back to their summer breading ground. How do they know where to go?
My opinion is right why can’t they see it. Everyone taking a side and criticizing their fellowman. If we live in this mindset of constant arguing and fear of disease, checking hospitalization and death statistics and depending on human wisdom, we will find ourselves in a state of weariness at the least and deep dark depression at the worst. So what is a woman of God to do?
I ain’t even gonna lie. I hadn’t looked at the first model, I hadn’t watched or listened to the weather man (the one living in my house and the one not.) I had’t been stressed over it at all. Normally my stress regarding the weather is limited to: 1. If I’m scheduled to work because when the weather is bad and you’re a fragile kid, your dad’s a meteorologist working in a closet, it’s good to have your mom at home. And 2. When your patriarch is a meteorologist and you still go to church on Sunday morning the aforementioned patriarch will not likely be present. (His coverage area is not limited to Where We Live, Alabama, so it might be simply delightful here and all crunk up in the Pickens, Lamar, and the Hale counties, among others, so he must work to share the information with those people.)
That was until humanity and the Good that lives in us proved him wrong. That was until people began to come out of their homes and love on their neighbors, spreading good news and smiles with unused sidewalk chalk. That was until unlikely seamstresses were born overnight to carry the burden of making masks and items for those in need of them. That was until we started to look up and see the helpers, the heroes, and the humble. That was until families forced to stay at home have eaten meals together and talked and laughed, and cried and healed. That was until the creativity that we all have has been channeled into resourcefulness. I’ll bet he rubbed his grubby little hands together with delight at his work until he saw others selflessly run to the aid of the sufferers.
Easter week is the single most special Sunday to the King’s People. It’s the day when we remember intentionally what happened that first Resurrection Sunday, when our King overcame sin and death. There is likely not a single historical event that riles the enemy more than that one. He tried really hard to stop the Celebration and he failed, so now he was using against Alabamians what we all know and many of us fear… time and weather. What a perfect diabolical mix to push us over the edge.
The Boy Pup, desperate for fake Grace’s attention, wiggles himself free of the confines of my backyard and sets out to visit Fake Grace. Usually he gets turned around, stuck, gets himself into any number of awkward situations trying to make his way to Fake Grace. He has had to be rescued countless times as he makes an attempt to reach the counterfeit. As I rescue my Boy Pup, I scold him. He has gotten himself into a mess trying to make it to Fake Grace.


As I watched more people emerge from the escalator, I had a beautiful picture come across my mind. I began to think of the ultimate Welcome Home. How beautiful heaven must be when loved ones emerge into view. Some separations have been a long while but others, only a short time. No matter the amount of time, this joyous reunion is forever. Parents seeing their children. A husband seeing his beautiful wife. A Mother seeing her precious child lost far too soon. No more goodbyes. This is the Eternal Hello!
As we sat at the table the older two got so tickled with themselves that they even got me tickled. The very word legume had me turning red and laughing so heartily I was sure the aforementioned librarian would ask me to vacate. Those same two, have gained their Mama’s ability to laugh uncontrollably in a place designated for quietness – a sense of humor that is both inappropriate and annoying and the ability to procrastinate and avoid socializing if possible.