Out of the mountain of despair, a stone of hope

I lay in the comfy bed of my quiet hotel room, praying and wondering what I should do. I had met my sister-in-law in DC for the Reset 2016 event (https://reset2016.com/information/). We had shared this room, and she had left before 6 AM. I would head back home to Pennsylvania that morning, but I didn't necessarily need to rush, since my family wouldn't be home when I returned. 

Should I relax? Read? See if the hotel has a pool? Spend prolonged time with the Lord? 

Then it hit me: the Martin Luther King, Jr. Memorial. I had wanted to see it even before it was completed. Now it had been open to the public for almost five years, and I hadn't visited yet. "Is that what I should do, Lord?" I asked. 

I knew it was meant to be. Not only that, but I sensed the Lord telling me I would pray with someone there. 

It was July 17, and our nation was roiling with racial tension. Philando Castile had recently been shot in my home state of Minnesota. Alton Sterling had been fired upon by Louisiana police, even while restrained on the ground. Hearts were breaking, anger was flaring, questions hung in the air. Were we in the early stages of the newest civil rights movement? Was it time to address systemic racism? Where did the Church fit into all of this? This had, in fact, been a great theme for prayer during the revival event I had attended just the day before. It had certainly been on my heart and in my prayers well before that. 

I hurried my getting-ready process. I did a little online searching to figure out what it would take to get there, how that would fit with my timeline. Even with the help of the Metro, I would need to do an extra hour of walking, dragging my suitcase with me. So be it. I would do it. It felt like an act of obedience. 

As I packed, checked out of the hotel, walked toward the train station, helped a lost man find his way, navigated the Metro, walked toward the monument, it all felt like a holy experience. I fellowshipped with the Lord, anticipated whom I might meet, chuckled at myself and my unique mission.

The path around the Tidal Basin was gorgeous. I paused to appreciate the view of the Thomas Jefferson Memorial. 

I marveled at how breathtaking the path would be when the cherry trees were blossoming. 

My suitcase bumped along behind me.

Then the monument came into my sight: 

There he was, coming out of the rock, taking his stand. “Out of the mountain of despair, a stone of hope.” (See https://www.nps.gov/mlkm/index.htm.)

It was a powerful moment. 

I was at the monument early in the morning. For Washington, DC, there was a remarkable hush in the air. Only two other people shared the experience with me, a jogger who had turned contemplative upon entering the area, and a woman who also appeared to be reflecting deeply. Both were African Americans. My forebears came to the United States from Germany and Denmark. 

It did feel like holy ground. Martin Luther King, Jr., was a God-fearing man. He was far from perfect. In fact, he made some pretty glaring mistakes for a reverend. But he did a lot of things right too--and he was a prophetic voice for our nation—and the world. 

At a time when our nation appeared divided again, it felt right to stand in this place.

I asked the Lord, "With whom do I pray? With one of these two?" 

I worked my way through the facets of the memorial. I contemplated the meaning of the sculpture's design. 

Tears streamed down my face as I worked my way through the quotes. 

Words like this: 

and this

seemed so needed even in July 2016. My heart was breaking. 

Upon viewing the entire memorial, I sat down on a cool, stone bench, rolled my suitcase beside me, and contemplated, praying. 

The reverie was breaking. The morning stillness was slipping away. A seemingly affluent white family with backpacks cruised through, clearly making a quick stop at this memorial on their way to someplace else. 

Rollerbladers breezed in and out, circling the monument, moving on. Others funneled through, using the path as a means to another place. A park service worker tidied up the area. DC was turning back into the bustling place I knew better. The time was slipping away. I soon needed to leave in order to make it home on time to participate in my regular Sunday volunteer work. 

Suddenly, there was a moment of quiet. I didn't see anyone around. It seemed time to go. I stood up, adjusted my backpack, grabbed my suitcase, and headed toward the exit that would spit me out onto a busy thoroughfare, rather than returning by the lovely path I had taken.

As I approached the exit, the park service employee appeared from along the wall of the memorial. He pulled a rolling trash receptacle behind him, gripped a cigarette in his other hand. 

Our paths were converging. 

"Is it him, Lord?" I silently asked. 

Our paths met. This African American man looked distinguished, yet weary. He had gray streaks in his hair. We greeted each other. 

I went for it. 

"Are you a praying man?" I politely inquired. 

He looked up a little nervously. "No, ma'am," he said as he continued walking. He didn't ask, but his face said, "Why?" 

I shrugged and perhaps sighed. Maybe the smudges from tears were still on my face. "I just wanted to pray with someone about the state of our nation," I said very sincerely as I continued on my way. 

"Wait!" He called to me. "I misunderstood. Yes, I'd like to pray with you." 

I stopped, smiled, thanked him. "I will probably cry," I warned him. He nodded, and I began. I poured out my heart before the Lord for the brokenness in our land, about the ugliness in our hearts, about our craving for justice, truth, grace and hope. I entrusted our land into His holy hands. My voice caught. Tears flowed. There were some long pauses. But we prayed for our land together. And then we moved on. 

He returned to his work. I hurried to my train. Perfect strangers who will never see each other again, but who share a desire for healing and who pray toward that end. 

I walked in the freedom of obedience and from accomplishing my purpose for that morning. And I walked in hope. 

May we continually step together to pray, to hope, to understand, in our nation's capital and beyond.