I'm a pale-skinned freckle-faced red head. (In other words, I'm about as white as you can get.) I grew up in small town America where almost everyone else was white like me. And I will be the first to admit that, though I'm seeking to learn, I don't fully "get" what it's like to be black in America.
I don't know what it's like to be judged unfairly, hated by some, misunderstood and mistreated simply because of the color of my skin. I don't know what it's like to walk around with the knowledge that some people assume I'm violent or poor or less than or uneducated or unintelligent simply because of my skin color. I don't know what it's like to experience the evil of racism first hand. I don't know what it's like because I'm white.
But I do know what it's like to be the mommy of a beautiful black baby boy.
I know what it's like to look at his beautiful brown skin and feel his warm hand in mine and wonder if my heart might burst right out of my chest with love.
I know what it's like to hold him in my arms and tell him that his skin is beautiful, that God made him black for His glory, that he is made in the image of God.
I know what it's like to sit down with my four children, watching Dr. Martin Luther King's "I Have A Dream" speech, tears streaming down my face in awe at the miracle that my family gets to look like this.
Though there are many things I don't know, there is one thing I know for sure; I know that being the white, pale-skinned mommy of my beautiful black baby boy is one of the greatest joys of my life.
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