Tears of Hope

Call me crazy. Call me corny. Call me a crybaby.

I balled as Barack Obama promised to preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States.

I don’t presume to understand the level of pride and hope millions of underrepresented Americans must feel right now, but today’s events call for reflection, albeit through my limited lens.

I’ve never been denied restaurant service or been forced to the back of a bus. My somewhat sheltered life has been relatively uneventful. Born in Alabama 19 days after that bloody march across Selma’s Edmund Pettus Bridge, I’ve seen a desegregated South -- a desegregated America -- where many were publicly guaranteed freedoms, but in reality still battled hatred and discrimination.

I’ve heard slurs roll off tongues of men who, just moments before, were invoking God’s name, apparently unaware of the depth of his love or measure of his grace. I’ve seen emblems of hatred and divisiveness ignorantly emblazoned upon ball caps and belt buckles. I’ve witnessed a burning cross and the frightening sight of hooded men gathered in the darkness of night.

But today, I experienced hope.