My Dark Spot

I am covered with spots. There are literally thousands upon thousands of rust colored freckles on any part of my body that has ever seen the sun. However, if you look closely at my right arm just above the wrist you will notice a spot that is different. There is a spot that is much darker. There is a black spot. My amount of spots has grown through the years. I could never tell you when each one appeared. But the origin of that darker spot is something I will never forget because it had a profound impact on a young boy’s life. Let me share with you the story of my dark spot.

When I was nine years old my family moved from the small town of Jamestown, Kentucky to the big city of Louisville. I had just finished the third grade and would be a fourth grader in a new school. We quickly learned that because of the school system’s rules I would not attend any of the elementary schools that were close to me but would ride a bus almost two hours a day to attend Parkland Elementary. As the bus made its way close to the school I noticed that the people on all the billboards began to have a darker hue. The school was old and run down as was the neighborhood. The playground was surrounded by a big fence with barbed wire around the top. The concrete walls, the barren hallways and old tile floors seemed more suited for a prison than they did a place where children could learn. It happened one day in Mrs. Friday’s fourth grade classroom. I was standing behind a row of desks talking to a friend. Suddenly another boy who happened to be African American jumped out of his seat and stabbed me with a pencil. I looked down at the number two yellow pencil sticking out of my arm and asked in a loud voice, “Why did you do that?”! “You spat on me” he replied! I told him he was wrong, and that if spit got on him it was an accident. He didn’t want to hear my excuses and was ready to fight and to be honest at that point so was I. Before we could really get into it, our teacher had grabbed each one us by the arm and took to the principal’s office. I remember being so mad that day. I didn’t know what made him act that way. He could have been dealing with something at home. Perhaps he was even being abused. As a nine year old boy, I didn’t really care. I could only think of how it affected me. I remember thinking that the color of our skin must have something to do with it. I was not only left with a black spot on my arm that day, I was left with one on my heart. Two years later I was a student at Iroquois Middle School. It was close enough to walk to from my house. However, I still seemed to be a minority at the school. The black spot on my arm was visible, but I was pretty good at hiding the one on my heart. I was sitting in my desk one day in math class, when a girl who happened to be African American grabbed me by the hair and jerked me down to the ground as my books flew and the desk crashed with me. I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t make sense of it. I was so embarrassed as everyone laughed. I didn’t know what caused her to do that. Was she just mean? Was she facing something difficult at home? Was she being abused? As an eleven year old boy, I didn’t really care. I remember thinking that the color of our skin must have had something to do with it. That day the spot on my heart grew bigger. In my eighth grade year we moved from the big city of Louisville to Estill Springs, Tennessee. I went through culture shock all over again. I went from being what seemed like a minority at school to being part of an overwhelming majority. Our High School’s nickname was “The Rebels”. We flew confederate flags from the top our stadium and played “Dixie” every time we scored a touchdown. Like many others, there were times when I was faced with issues of race but for the most part I just made my way through my teenage years without thinking about it much at all. Of course, on my arm there remained a little dark spot, and another in my heart. I asked Jesus Christ to come into my heart when I was a junior in high school. He immediately began to do a cleansing work in me. The black spots on my heart were beginning to be erased even if the one on my arm remained. I began to see people differently. I fought the urge to judge someone by the outside and first impressions. I wanted to see people the way that Jesus saw people. Today, I am a forty two year old husband, father, pastor and coach. Thirty one years ago an angry little African American boy made a mark on my arm. Thirty one years later another little nine year old African American boy is making a mark on my heart and life. His name is Jeremiah. He was on the football team that I coached and he needed someone to take him in when his adoptive mother could no longer keep him. He has lived with us for seven months now and has quickly become part of our family. I am his dad and he is my son. I have learned much in these last seven months. I realize that race will always be something that He has to deal with. I can look down and find the dark spot in the midst of all the other freckles that make up my arm and my life. As Jeremiah looks down or into the mirror all that reflects back at him is dark skin. I might be able to avoid issues of race, but he can’t. People will judge him before they ever know him. We have made many steps forward toward the realization of Dr. King’s dream, but I am reminded we still have a long way to go. We need to be honest about where we have been and how racial issues have impacted our lives. We need to seek and extend forgiveness toward one another as we pursue the healing that’s needed. Ultimately we need to love all people the way that Jesus loves us. Jeremiah 13:23 asks, “Can an Ethiopian change his skin or a leopard change its spots? I guess the only answer to the prophet’s question has to be no. However, I do believe that spots can change, because the dark spot on my arm that once reminded me to hate, judge, and mistrust, now reminds me to love, to respect and to care.