Never alone Martin
"But death doesn't matter with me now," he said. "Because I've been to the mountaintop. And I've looked over, and I've seen the Promised Land. I may not get there with you. But I want you to know that we as a people will get to the Promised Land. So I'm happy; I'm not fearing any man. Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord." ~Martin Luther King Jr.
He loved not his life even until death.
I like music. I like listening to music; the intoxicating rhythms of jazz, the soothing melody of classical;the soft whispering lyrics of a love song. I’m not really choosy when it comes to music. For over two weeks I have played this one song over and over. Jason Upton,“Never alone Martin,” from the CD “Beautiful People.” It’s about Martin Luther King’s last days. His struggle to make sense of the kind of cruelty and hatred that would take a young father from his family that would eventually leave him lying in a pool of his own blood.
It’s not unusual for me to play a song over and over. I will usually play a worship CD until I feel completely immersed in worship. It's different this time. I feel a great sadness in every stroke of Jason's keyboard; the heartfelt sobs in his voice as he speaks of Martin Luther King’s death threat. I was captivated by Martin’s tears and God’s response in the song. “You’re not alone; I will never leave you”. In his last speech Martin Luther King Jr. said he had been to the mountain top and his eyes had seen the glory of the coming of the Lord. I remember that speech and even his death the following day with startling clarity.
I was seven years old and living in Detroit at the time; a mostly withdrawn, shy, sensitive, third child of eight. My brothers and sisters were all playing. We had a big wood based television that had bad reception and a wire coat hanger as an antenna. On the television I hear Walter Cronkite booming voice say, “Martin Luther King is dead from gunshot wound to the neck". I was standing alone in our living room trying to understand death and destruction, violence against someone who spoke out against violence. No longer were there dogs and water hose or riot and looting but the finality of Martin life’s blood pouring into a lonely hotel balcony. He was dead before the age of forty.
The summer before that fateful day, the 1967 riot had broke out in the streets of Detroit. Our family had just moved to Detroit from a quiet suburb near Detroit. The week we moved in the riot started. I remember the black smoke and fire looming overhead like a wicked omen threatening to steal our breath; the gunshots, death, National Guards and the Army patrolling the streets in tanks and jeeps. The wild-eyed angry looters; the glass breaking and screams. Our family made a hasty retreat in the middle of the night, my father carried me to the car barefoot, screaming and afraid. We went back to the quiet neighborhood where my grandparents still lived; our refuge and safe haven. My father went back to the riot and a few months later to prison for looting a money order machine.
I still remember the pain of hearing the news of Martin’s death. I remember the salty taste of my tears as they rolled slowly down both cheeks. I retreated to an empty bedroom and went into the closet. I needed to cry loud and hard and even at the young age of seven I had learned to hide my pain. Tears have always come easy to me, which left me the blunt and target of my siblings teasing. They called me names and gave me labels like Crybaby and Sissiecat. I learned how to hide my tears in closets or the folds of my clothes and as I got older in drugs, alcohol and self-destructive behavior. But in that closet when I was alone with my pain; I cried. I cried for a nation that hated peace and the peacemakers. I cried against prejudice, injustice and cruelty but mostly I cried for little girls who no longer had their daddy.
I watched the video of Martin’s last speech and noticed how at the end of his speech he just kind of collapse into a chair with the help of an aid. His body worn and tired his spirit strong and sure. He said he came to do the will of his Father. I wonder if like Jesus in the garden of Gethesmane he cried, prayed and sweated blood in the hotel room that night. Did he ask for the cup to be taken from him? Or reprimand his aids for not being able to stay awake and pray for an hour.
His work has been completed. Mine has just begun.
Early on Martin Luther King Jr. adopted the motto of nonviolence; if they see our pain maybe it will stop the cruelty and injustice. I no longer hide my pain but cry openly with my voice and the pen. I now show my pain and reveal my scars. I cry. I cry for the decay of our society, the haunted look in the eyes of a once strong nation.I cry for our neighborhoods and Townships. I cry for creation, men, women and children, the young battered and abused women that was once me.
Last week I was sent an email and asked to blog about Martin Luther King Jr and a monument in his honor. There’s still 14 million dollars more to be raised to forever etch on the hearts and minds of both past and future generations the greatness of the civil rights movement, and one of the most beloved figures of the 20 century. Please make a contribution to the cause. I have added the link for your convenience
