Salt and Warmth and Light
Photo by Samuele Sala Veni on Unsplash
My phone was on airplane mode during a transatlantic flight while collective grief descended upon my city back home. Renee Good had been pronounced dead and then ICE agents moved on to the grounds of a nearby high school to teargas students and take educators during release time. I spent our layover in Istanbul trying to wrap my head and heart around the familiar facts and feelings.
They’re already blaming her for getting herself killed.
The officer hasn’t been arrested yet.
I’m too far away from my people and it hurts.
All I do is process things too quickly so I can talk to my kids about them.
I called my son, a student at Roosevelt High School. I needed to hear his voice even though, like most fourteen year old boys, he’s not a huge fan of talking on the phone. We talked about what happened on school grounds and then he told me that Minneapolis Public Schools had cancelled classes for the rest of the week. They were going to keep kids home to keep them safe from the violence and occupation being inflicted upon us by our own federal government.
Steady like salt. Huddled for warmth. Lighting the way.
For the next four days, I tried to be present and embodied in Egypt while checking in at home. I led devotions, ran logistics and supported pastors on the pilgrimage. I helped some of them figure out how to message their congregations about the killing of Renee Good from far away. I followed local sources. I listened to leaders on the ground. I cried for the wounds, both new and reopened in our city’s story. I prayed for my colleagues, neighbors and children. When we could connect, they all told me the same thing: Prepare yourself. It’s different now.
I became violently ill on Monday morning in Egypt. My whole body was rejecting the idea of my family and my neighbors going back out into the world when they woke up several hours later in Minneapolis. But then I opened my email and found an epistle from Christian Ledesma, the principal at Roosevelt High School. His letters to “Teddy Nation” are always thoughtful and wise, calling the community into the best version of ourselves. And that morning in Egypt/evening in Minneapolis, it was the healing word I needed:
As I write this letter, I'm looking out at a slippery street that almost broke my back this morning. Although I've lived here for almost twelve years, I still struggle with Minnesota winters. Winter in Minnesota has taught me a few things, though: we can survive and thrive in cold, we can prepare for it, and most importantly, to trust that spring will come.
This morning, a community leader reminded me that ice doesn't melt on its own. It needs three essential elements: salt, warmth, and light. Our Roosevelt community is going through a difficult season right now. Yet we have everything we need to move through this together.
We need to be the salt of the earth - people who are genuine, honest, trustworthy, and reliable. Salt doesn't work dramatically or immediately, but it's steady. Each small act of kindness, each word of encouragement, each moment we choose to show up for one another, these are the grains of salt that make a difference.
We need to be the warmth of our community. We need to build the collective heat that comes from standing close together rather than apart. Just as we huddle together waiting for the bus on cold mornings, we must stand together now. Your presence matters. Your compassion matters. The warmth you bring to our hallways, classrooms, and conversations creates the conditions for healing and growth.
We need to be the light we wish to see in the world. Because even on the darkest January morning, even when sunlight feels far away, light has the power to transform. Be the light in someone's difficult day. Be the light that helps others find their way. Be the light that reminds us all that darkness is never permanent.
Tomorrow, when we gather again as a school community, I hope you'll remember that you carry all three of these elements within you. You have the power to be salt, warmth, and light for those around you.
The words of caution my colleagues had offered remained true. I tried to prepare myself. And. Everything is different now. I returned home to find this occupation is cruel and pervasive and completely disorienting. And. I returned home to find the resolve of our community familiar and fierce. Steady like salt. Huddled for warmth. Lighting the way.
It will be a good long while before I can hear Matthew 5:13-20 without picturing those who have been decentralizing power and organizing our communities around a moral imagination, modeling salt and light for years.
This Sunday I will give thanks for the community at George Floyd Square, for parents patrolling school sidewalks in yellow safety vests, for grandmothers handing out sandwiches at protests, for Somali moms brewing coffee at memorials, for big white dudes in head-to-toe Carharts rallying around immigrant-owned restaurants, for boomers blowing up direct aid Venmos with rental assistance, for veterans ready and waiting with coats and burner phones to receive those released from detention, for students organizing school walk outs, and for creatives who make resistance art.
I will give thanks for the healing power of principals and preachers and every crowd that dares to be salt and warmth and light.
