My Friend Sam

I grew up in a town where I only knew of three black families. That’s not because I was insulated by my own ‘whiteness’ but there simply weren’t many black families in my community. Our town wasn’t segregated; it was isolated.

We had a different social issue; a white social class system. Rich and poor. Often categorized as white trash and the white elite. I was in the third group; the white middle class. Probably the white majority. We weren’t rich or part of the elite. But my parents never led me to believe we were poor. So I learned to run my lane trying to simply engage with the majority of those running alongside me.

But one of those black family’s members in particular was a staple in our town prior to my existence. He was the recreation department director of our community. Loved by many. And simply seen as one of ‘us’ in our small town.

Not only was he a community leader, he was a family friend. He didn’t just do his job, he spent time with my family and me. My dad was my little league coach so obviously they had multiple encounters and possibly even a few disagreements. But the race card was never in play. Thursday’s sharp disagreement at the ball field didn’t hinder Saturday’s hunting expedition.

Because he knew everybody and everybody’s kids that came through the rec league programs it seemed like he knew every square inch of landscape of our town. And that led to some incredible hunting memories.

He was never expected to ride in the back seat. And on the days when the crowd was large enough to warrant multiple vehicles I would occasionally ride in the front seat of his old Ford truck. His smoky voice and unforgettable laugh. Whistling at the dogs while walking through the woods. Carrying a single shot shotgun held together with electrical tape that I was sure had been passed down for generations.

Then cancer came. That dreaded disease is no respecter of persons. Sometimes it gently knocks on the door and other times it barges in without warning. It doesn’t matter if you’re rich or poor. Black or white. Young or old. Healthy or sick. It goes where it wishes. And it seldom heeds to anyone’s demands. And it took his life.

In a town of ∼40,000 people, and of all the people that could have been asked, the family asked me to speak at his funeral. Me. Why me? What would I say? As I pondered the invitation I assured them I was humbled and honored to be asked. And I told them it would be my privilege and honor to oblige.

I was sure of two things. I was sure of his love for the kids of this community, of which I was one. And I was sure of God’s love for His people. Again, of which I was one. And that is expressly what I shared. Love changes people. Love matters.

More than ten years since his passing our country continues to be fraught with attitudes and actions that diminish the rights and dignity of men and women just like him; lives of minorities. His death wasn’t unjust at the grip of human hands. It was unjust at the hands of the evil curse of cancer. Unfair nonetheless.

Here’s how his memory will live on and his life will be remembered; when people share their experiences of how color never distracted from character. When acceptance and friendship is built on mutual love and respect absent of skin tone.

What we need is to share personal stories and invite others into a conversation that will affect change. The more willing we become to embrace and embody love and acceptance rather than privilege and entitlement the more lovely and enjoyable this world will be.