Last week a white supremacist launched a terrorist attack against Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church in Charleston, South Carolina.
The next evening in Washington DC’s Mt. Vernon Square, I along with several others, most of us strangers before this moment, gathered to mourn the loss of nine innocent Black people murdered during their weekly evening prayer meeting. We formed a small circle, holding candles and summoning light in a vain effort to dispel the darkness that covered the sky and our hearts, trying not to cry as we held vigil.
The rain poured down so hard that umbrellas offered little protection. Our clothes and shoes were soaked but the discomfort felt right. The heavens wept with us. It seemed appropriate to see only clouds and not be able to count the stars, like I did when I was little and full of hope.
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