Something weird is happening to me as I approach the 50th anniversary of my birth: I don’t care anymore, and it’s wonderful.
The day after the horrific police shootings in Dallas, I approached a young, black co-worker and asked him what he thinks is happening in this country. I asked him what he thinks of racism, the media and the protests. I got an earful. In just a few short minutes, he explained his experiences. In his voice I heard pain, conviction, and surprising truths that challenged a few stereotypes ingrained in me. When I was younger, this conversation would have never taken place. I would have been too afraid to ask. But I don’t care anymore.
A few weeks back, a friend and I were having lunch and he was telling me some serious and complicated things going on in his life. I didn’t have answers for him, but I do have faith. I asked him if I could pray with him right then and there. I don’t care anymore.
I don’t care what people might think when they see me in a booth at Oscar’s Taco praying with another man. I don’t care that it’s hard to have face-to-face conversations with a person who looks different than me about race. I don’t care about being unfriended, unfollowed and uninvited. I’m not sure when it happened, but doing important things, saying important things, and LISTENING to important things became bigger than my fear, bigger than my ego, and bigger than my “image.”
I look forward to the next time I don’t care because, it turns out, that’s where real caring begins.
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