Blessing, glory, honor and power

Almost exactly one year ago, I wrote about Tyre Nichols, the young Black man murdered by Memphis police, and the dignity of his mother, Row Vaughn Wells. He calls for her in the video as he lies on the ground just before he dies.

I can still hear his voice: “Mom! Mom! Mom!” It still terrorizes me. It blends with the voice of my own son, apple of my eye, the pride and joy of my life, along with his sisters.

I wrote about my friend who I think of more like a sister-in-arms, who led me and stood with me and leads and stands with me still in the battle for public education. Whose nearly perfect young Black son produced my podcast when I worked at Arkansas Strong. I wrote about his infinite patience with his mother’s Luddite friend. His brilliance. His inner and outer beauty, like a bronze god who embodied light. When he smiled it was as if he glowed from the inside out.

Norel died in a car wreck on Jan. 28.

I still cannot believe those words, even as I type them. It cannot be real, cannot be true, but is. I walked around in a daze all week after hearing the news. It was the last thing I thought of when I went to bed and the first thing upon waking in the morning. Powerless to understand or help. I drove to Little Rock in the rain for the funeral and stayed so I could hug my friend. It was all I could do. And all I have now are words, a need to make meaning; to bear witness to his life, and to the dignity and grace of the family he leaves behind.

Kurt Vonnegut said, “When I write, I feel like an armless, legless man with a crayon in his mouth.” I feel like this too, but never more than as I try to approach this subject. Because there is no writing about it without writing about the Black community in Little Rock.

This Ozark Hillbilly is woefully ignorant when it comes to Black culture. I grew up with exactly one African American person in my graduating class. Norel’s mom and I talked about raising our sons, and my worries involved things like deer hunting, rattlesnakes, and rednecks. She taught me about having the “talk” with her son around age 9, that when he got his first phone it was programmed with the number of a lawyer they knew; how he was given instructions to record any confrontation with police.

When I first met Norel’s parents, their excellence was as novel to me as young Black male rites of passage. These teachers were leaders. Powerful. Professional. Elite.

I was new to the whole scene of political advocacy for public school children. I had had one experience of being shunned while trying to speak at a House Education Committee meeting, and it sent me to my car in tears. Now I was back and finding my way around the Capitol, figuring out what to do as I went along.

These folks knew what they were doing. They had been at it for years. The courage, creativity, and boldness they showed challenged and inspired me. A modicum of self-awareness is humbling in the presence of greatness. Their command of themselves, audiences, and issues was a little intimidating at first. But as happens with truly great leaders, intimidation soon gave way to invitation.

I joined hearts and hands with them, found my own voice in the song they sang first, came alongside in work they were already doing. Watched and learned.

I was one of a handful of white people in the overflowing sanctuary of St. Andrew’s United Methodist Church for Norel’s funeral. I wore an orange dress on Stacey’s request because it was his favorite color, and they wanted bright color.

This was the only thing about me that didn’t seem out of place, I am sure, as I tried to keep rhythm with songs I didn’t know. It was like being a far less talented Luke Combs in awe of Tracy Chapman. Color danced and clapped and swayed around me, repeating this line that I recognized from Revelation: “Blessing and glory, and honor, they all belong to You.”

I watched for the family to enter because I wanted to see my friend. I wanted to somehow send out my love and strength to her. But she didn’t need it. She was slain, yet strong and warm and classy as ever. Resolute. Present. I heard Norel’s dad before I saw him beside her, singing, improvising, emoting. Heart on his sleeve. Unapologetic. Leading, because that is what leaders do.

I do not believe everything happens for a reason. Nor do I believe, if it did, that any reason would ever be good enough or somehow worth it for Norel to be gone so soon.

What I do believe is that Jesus is with us, whatever we face. And love, and the way we choose to live our lives matters. The lights his family shine on this world—Little Rock, this state, their community— it all matters. His life mattered to me.