This ritzy lounge with oak paneled walls and a fireplace is at Harvard Law School where I’m studying. It’s empty at 6 am, Saturday morning. When I walked in here, I knelt and thanked God. I felt such privilege.
I heard God saying to me, “Although there are many here now—not long ago, there were no people of color here.”
For a minute, I just stared at this place. Yesterday, I met one of my fellow classmates at Harvard Divinity School whose legs were amputated. The first thing I said to him was, “Are you the Navy Seal?” I briefly saw his profile in our Orientation Book. He nodded and smiled.
As I meandered through this room full of velvet chairs, I thought, ‘What did he have to give to be here?’ His legs.
Then, I thought, ‘What did I give?’ The answer came to me, ‘A broken dream. God had to humble me.’
The Seal gave God his legs. God gave him back what many of his brethren lost, a sound mind. I gave God my hand, which represents my trust. God gave me back my wounded heart.
I felt something warm on my fingers, as soft as a tongue. I looked down, but there was nothing there. Then I thought, maybe God is holding my hand.
He said to me, “Vicky, a wounded heart is a soft heart. The hardened heart you had before was a weapon.”
“But this wounded heart is not mine,” I said to him. It felt too big in my palm and my long fingers could barely stretch around half of it.
“No,” he said to me. “It’s mine.”
Then, I felt myself kneeling once again on the plush carpet of this grand ballroom that Harvard considers a mere study lounge and realized that I was kneeling for so many female slaves who had knelt behind me—all of them, carrying God’s heart in their calloused hands. I was now the first in that line and one day, someone’s daughter will kneel in front of me.