I'd so wanted to write something last week about the inspirational Martin Luther King, Jr. But, how does one begin to find the proper words and then to combine those words in an emotionally significant manner to laud one so iconic?
I had this vague idea that I would begin my post with our five-year-old daughter excitedly bounding into the house to tell us, Sweet Husband and I, of the great person about whom her kindergarten teacher had spoken, “Martin Luther, the King” —her phrase so endearing to us at that moment that we still, smilingly, use it to this day.
And then I thought I would segue into a eulogy I'd heard. A highly-regarded attorney friend (caucasian) known for his eloquence, “borrowed” (his word, not mine) a quote from MLK to describe his personal feeling at his long-suffering mother’s death. He hijacked this as his closing statement: “...free at last, free at last, thank God almighty, (we are) free at last.”
And how there I sat there, in church, with a bitter taste of resentment forming at the back of my throat at my friend’s misappropriation of that quote. Like swallowing tainted food, it just didn’t sit right with me and does not to this day.
Then I might mention Martin Luther King, Jr’s education. Starting with his graduation from high school at the age of fifteen (the age where I sat zoned out in my high school sophomore history class, engulfed in a wash of ennui and staring blankly out the window.)
And how in 1948 he received a Bachelor of Arts degree from Morehouse College in Atlanta, and then in 1951 a second degree from Pennsylvania’s Crozer Theological Seminary as the elected president of a mostly caucasian senior class.
At the age of 26 he became “Dr.” King when he earned a PhD at Boston University.
When he was thirty-five years old Dr. King became the youngest male recipient of the Nobel Peace Prize. He chose to donate his prize money of $54,000+ to assist in the continuation of his non-violent civil rights movement.
Would I then, I wonder, mention the spiritual revelation he experienced as the result of a threatening telephone call he received on January 27, 1956? Or, the explosion heard blocks away from his home, it’s epicenter, just three days later:
“Your house has been bombed.”
I asked if my wife and baby were all right.
They said, “We are checking on that now.”
—(Stride Toward Freedom: The Montgomery Story, Martin Luther King, Jr.)
And would I include something about the burned cross he found on the lawn of his new house in April 1960?
I’m quite sure I would finish things up with his assassination using something like the poetic lyrics from U2’s “Pride (In the Name of Love):
Early morning April four
shot rings out in the Memphis sky
Free at last, they took your life
They could not take your pride
He was 39 years old.
2018 marks the 50th anniversary of his death.
He was 39 years old,
He * was * 39 * years * old.
***
But the busyness of life, as it frequently does, ate away at my writing time… a nibble here, a bite there and before you know it, it has all but disappeared.
This day Sweet Husband and I are “on call.” Our almost four-year-old grandson, offspring of our “Martin Luther, the King” daughter, may or may not be ill. Daughter, son-in-law and grandson, live away —a two-hour commute. We have volunteered to drive into the city and care for Grandson, if he is too ill for preschool/daycare.
Concerned about Grandson’s reported low-grade fever, lethargy and disinterest in food, SH and I have readied overnight bags. We are prepared to dash out at 6 a.m., if needed. Like Minutemen, we are readily mobile and quickly deployable.
While I could not carve a slice of time for myself, I’ve instantly put aside all obligations to await word about the status of our little guy.
As I wait, I type. I look up and notice our digital photo frame, a gift from our “Martin Luther, the King” daughter. She gave it to us fully loaded with photos of our family throughout the years.
The frame sits in our living room and is triggered by motion. So on occasion I pass it or move in such a way that I trip the sensor. Out of the corner of my eye I will notice the display light and a photo of my past will flash before my eyes, the start of a slideshow.
Quite often I am in the photos and they are of moments that, for whatever reason, are not stored in my memory bank. I don’t remember that! And yet I recognize the photo as somewhere I probably would have been or some activity in which I might well have partaken.
Where was my brain on that occasion? Why did it not register this particular moment? I’ve a pretty good memory, so how do I not remember this scene? Can a person be so absorbed, comfortably ensconced in a moment that they miss it? No, more likely I was thinking ahead to some chore that needed tending or perhaps ruminating over some past disappointment. Tsk, such a waste to not be in the moment…
They say that your “life flashes before your eyes” when you die.
If so, what will my life show me?
Will it be similar to the ever-changing slideshow I have now in my living room?
Will I be able to fast forward through events I consider unimportant? —like my sophomore history class? "Alexa, skip."
Will I be able to hit a “slo-mo” or “repeat” button to savor treasured significant occasions?
—my oldest son playing Für Elise at his piano recital?
—reading and re-reading my middle child’s written words?
—my 3rd and youngest child gracefully scoring a soccer goal?
—my husband’s sweet temperament?
—laughing uproariously with family and friends?
—all of the people who’ve motivated and inspired me?
—the birth and gift of each of my grandchildren?
—will I see myself baking and gardening and reading books?
—surely I will see each of my three children’s first smiles.
Will the snapshots be in sequence??
Will the snapshots be in sequence??
***
And then I wonder: What did Martin Luther King, Jr. view as his life flashed before his eyes?
 |
| Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. removing a burned cross from his front lawn, with his son at his side |
***
“The mortal heart of Martin Luther King was stopped by an assassin’s bullet. But no power on earth can stop his work.”
—Rev. Ralph D. Abernathy
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