a home that asks why
There are those that are inclined to their feelings and those inclined to thinking. Obviously, we all do both, but some of us naturally lean more one way. I’m a thinker – and I don’t lean just a little bit that way, but I’m flips off the high dive into the thinking pool thinker.
Quiet space to think about more than how many loads of laundry are piled up feels like a luxury in this season of life. Most days I can’t tell you what grades my kids are in and the most I process is whatever is needed for the pressing needs of the day.
While in D.C. I soaked up the opportunity to think about hard things – important things. Chris and I took one day to visit the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum. I had been once before when I was in 8th grade and I knew I wanted to return as an adult.
The next day I slowly made my way through the National Museum of African American History and Culture (NMAAHC).
Both museums are devastating. Both museums tell the stories of suffering and evil far worse than my mind can begin to comprehend. I spent most of both visits wanting to throw up while also locking understanding eyes with those standing silently next to me.
In the NMAAHC, I found my white self standing next to black men, women, and children. With arms brushing against each other and a somber hush over the room, we each tried making sense of our histories. I spend a lot of time reading history and current events. Connecting dots and working to understand my privilege as a middle class, white woman is something I do often. Regardless of how much I knew going into the museum, I was not prepared for how heavy the visit would feel. And it should feel heavy and important and weighty – in the very least. 
As I entered the section on the civil rights movement, I read posters, looked at photos, and tried to wrap my mind around a time in history that I have no personal experience to help me understand. There was a much older black couple behind me. They held each other as they walked through the winding halls. I could hear them recount their experiences. What I read on plaques and in old newspaper clippings – they lived through.
I’m not a hugger, but I wanted to hug, be present with, and say, “I’m so sorry” to all those around me.
One of the many difficult aspects of both is there isn’t a pretty bow tied at the end. The stories don’t just wrap up neatly like it was all just history and now the world is different. It isn’t – and that makes the visits so much harder. We have so, so far to go.
The next time you witness hatred, the next time you see injustice, the next time you hear about genocide, think about what you saw and ask why.
As I wandered those two museums (I did visit others), I kept thinking about Fred Rogers (Mr. Rogers) words regarding what his mom told him in times of disaster, “My mother would say to me, ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.’”
In both museums, I looked for the helpers. One thing stood out about the helpers in both historical narratives – the home was central to the way they helped. In the Holocaust Museum, the helpers were often those that opened their homes to hide friends, family, and strangers. They opened their homes despite tremendous personal risk. Their homes were places of refuge, sanctuary, and safety.
In the African American History museum, I looked for the helpers. While many came in the form of bold public leaders, countless others were found using their homes as places of refuge, sanctuary, and safety – and places to organize and prepare for action.
I have pages of notes I took at both museums (yes, I take notes at museums). I have lists of people, places, and events I want to study and learn more about. When people ask what I thought about those two museums specifically, the only word I can find to describe them is “important.” Neither were ‘good’ or ‘fun’ or whatever vague word we often use for places we visit. Important – that is the word I will land on.
I’m still processing what I learned, saw, and heard. However, I am even more certain of the importance of what happens in my home. The things I teach my kids, what I expose them to, the hard conversations that come with learning about difficult truths – these are so vital for the type of adults I hope they will one day become.
I’m also more convinced (if that was possible) of the importance of using my home to serve, love, protect, and welcome others. I have been given so, so much (and I am not even talking about material possessions).
In my kitchen, I hope the table is always too small to fit everyone that gathers here and asking why about what we see in the world is common conversation followed by brave, humble, and compassionate action.
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