A Prayer for Minnesota

Anger has always been an easy emotion for me to feel and express. Just ask my mom, who countless times endured the slamming of doors and stomping of feet by Teenage Cali. Or my elementary school bully who suffered a swift kick to the shin by nine-year-old Cali (who’d finally had enough).

The past several weeks here in Minnesota have been crushing, terrifying, disheartening, but most of all — angering.

In Minneapolis and St. Paul, numerous bridges over I-94 hold messages of protest. Small businesses have signage posted with reminders of their rights. A hostess at a local Mexican restaurant has to buzz you in at the door, which is locked for the safety of their staff. Community groups wait outside the Whipple Building with winter coats, food, and first aid for those released from detainment who have only the clothes on their backs. Neighbors station themselves at bus stops in order to escort children home. Volunteers deliver groceries to immigrant families who are afraid to leave their homes. Those same volunteers look over their shoulders to ensure no one is tracking them. My sisters carry copies of their passports that prove they are U.S. citizens, just in case.

I feel anger for Renee Good and Alex Pretti, among many others, who have been killed, pepper sprayed, arrested, or beaten. Anger for my immigrant neighbors, who have, for the last few weeks, not left their homes for fear that they or their loved ones will be taken away — who are unable to go to work or to school or to church. Anger at my fellow neighbors and even friends who have seen such violence and cruelty and still don’t believe the injustice happening right in front of their eyes. Anger at myself for my anger.

The phrase I keep hearing is “If you aren’t outraged, you aren’t paying attention.” I am paying attention, and I am outraged. And this anger, albeit justified or righteous or whatever the heck you want to say about it, festers like an aching wound.

My anger has brought me to cry out to Someone that I, truthfully and ashamedly, haven’t spoken to in a while: Christ, have mercy. Have mercy on me, a sinner, who offers you her anger and her hardening heart. Have mercy on my community and my state. Please provide resolution and safety and peace. Please bring our neighbors home to their loved ones. Please deliver us from violence and evil and hatred — even the hatred in our own hearts. 

Our eyes and ears have seen and heard such awful, sinful, broken things. But I’d like to share a few things I’ve seen in my dear home of Minnesota that have worked mercifully to soften my heart, and maybe yours too:

• Neighbors in neon-colored vests on street corners herding children off their yellow school bus and down the street to their homes.
• Bright origami butterflies carefully folded and arranged on a corner lamppost, providing a glimpse of color amidst the frozen snow.
• Minnesotans — dressed in long coats, knit scarves, and woolen mittens — crossing slippery ponds and huddling together like penguins in the cold.
• An old dog welcoming in a customer with his wagging tail, soft eyes, and promises of comfort.
• Piles upon piles of material donations and groceries to be packed into cars and delivered to families in need.
• Candlelit vigils of remembrance, a warm light in the frigid darkness.
• 100 clergy kneeling and praying and singing together for all to see.
• A woman, who is not a Christian, texting her mother with a request for prayers because she has hope in their power.

There is little to be said that hasn’t already been said over and over and over again. The news is on our Facebook feeds, Instagram stories, and Twitter threads. Arguments continue in our comment sections and even in our text messages. Amid all this, I offer a simple plea: Christ, have mercy.

Featured Image: Joe Keyport/KARE