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Bobbe Brooks

Sardie stood on one side of his bed and I stood on the other. Her beloved husband, Cornelius, was saying good-bye in case the surgery failed. I leaned over and kissed his butterscotch-colored forehead. He was the first black man I had ever kissed. The discomfort that needled me during the early stages of our friendship was gone.

A few hours later, the man who called me his "adopted daughter" died. And there I was left to comfort Sardie, now widowed after 60 years of marriage. She had been there for me through grief and divorce; and now it was my turn to comfort her.

At the funeral, I sat in the "family section" at the church, and later I joined everyone at Sardie's home for lunch. "You're one of us," Sardie's daughter Val said to me sweetly that morning.

For me, a onetime racist, to be so lovingly welcomed into the bonds of this African American family was nothing less than a miracle of God. I marveled at the wonder of it all.

That morning the sanctuary overflowed with people of both races. A record number of blacks filled our predominantly white church. Many of our churches in St. Augustine, Florida, even today, are segregated. Silently, I chuckled. Cornelius had accomplished in death what he lived in life-loving people to God, in spite of their color.

	Racial prejudice had poisoned my thinking. When I renounced those ugly and sinful ideas, God changed my heart.

He and Sardie were the first African Americans to attend our little Bible church. Years earlier, they walked through the solid oak doors, and gently erased the barriers of segregation with their loving kindness.

Love was the word used over and over, as both races eulogized the elegant spitfire of a man that was Cornelius Jones. And there was Sardie, in the front row, exquisitely dressed and wearing a hat as always. The petite fireball, who typically exuded remarkable strength, looked unusually fragile.

Through the years, Sardie expressed concern over a wide variety of social issues. She was troubled about the breakdown in African American families, the high rate of illiteracy, and the poverty that gripped so many in the minority community. With burdened hearts, she and Cornelius mentored young people in the church and throughout St. Augustine. Into their 80s, the couple taught the Bible and social responsibility to children in after-school programs. Their lives revolved around sharing faith, hope, and a sense of purpose with all races.

Sprinkled throughout the sanctuary that morning of the funeral were trophies of their efforts-people whose lives had been impacted over the years. They were college professors, Harvard Law School graduates, diplomats from the State Department, and at least one professional athlete. And there I was, a 56-year-old white woman, another soul whom the couple had nurtured.

Child of segregation
My friendship with Sardie and Cornelius Jones began some 20 years ago. The couple moved to St. Augustine in the mid-1970s, after their retirements from the Department of the Interior and the Pentagon in Washington, D.C. In 1980, when they began attending our church, the racial climate was unstable. Some whites even left the congregation over race issues, but Sardie and Cornelius knew that God had called them there.

I met Sardie one Sunday morning when she volunteered in the nursery. Holding my 1-year-old son, Rob, she inquired, "Who does this little cherub belong to?" And thus began our unusual friendship-me a closet segregationist, and Sardie a courageous woman who throughout her life had boldly integrated churches and government institutions. At the time, however, neither of us knew about the other's past.

I was born in Montgomery, Alabama, the cradle of the Confederacy, where the only African Americans I had known were Clanton, our yardman; Pearly Mae, the ironing lady; and Mary Lou, Pearly's young daughter. Clanton milked the cows and plowed the fields and Pearly Mae sweated over the ironing board, while Mary Lou jumped rope outside with me.

"Coloreds" knew "their place" then, and so did we. They came to the back door, but were rarely allowed inside. Our dogs entered through the front door, but not colored folks.

Reality slaps
As my friendship with Sardie blossomed, we were in and out of each other's homes. It took a while for me to adjust to the idea. What a shock it was when I walked into her bathroom and saw a black angel perched atop the tissue box. Black angels? I had thought all angels were sparkling white! From time to time, our racial differences grated against me like sandpaper against naked flesh.

But as our hearts blended, the uneasy feelings diminished. Then one afternoon, when I least expected it, the prejudice suddenly ignited again. As Sardie and I chatted in her living room, in walked her 6-foot grandson wearing a T-shirt emblazoned with a Confederate flag and the caption "Tear down that flag!"

What? I wanted to rip that shirt right off his back. How dare he? My family had reverenced the Confederate flag for generations.

I smiled politely, squelched the seething rage within me, and drove away terribly annoyed. For days I wrestled with the differences between Sardie's past and mine. Finally, I realized the flag that my family innocently revered also represented humiliation, suffering, and even death for Sardie's family. To this day, she doesn't know that her grandson's T-shirt was a reality slap for me.

One day she confided, "We've been invited to the church around the corner, but …." She paused. "But-you know-many of them are …." Finally she said, "Rednecks." Rednecks?

I wondered-would Sardie categorize me as a redneck? To me, rednecks were the stereotypical hillbillies with junk cars in the yard and appliances on the front porch. We weren't rednecks.

However, we did have some strong traditions. Growing up in Montgomery, every Easter after worship services and a scrumptious spread of turkey and dressing, we drove to the State Capitol. Dressed in Easter finery, we ambled through colorful flower gardens and had our pictures taken on the brass star where Jefferson Davis was inaugurated president of the Confederacy in 1861. Occasionally our elders joked, "Save your Confederate money, the South will rise again." And we chuckled.

Our beliefs were as Southern as chicken 'n' dumplings and pecan pie; but suddenly everything changed.

Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., stormed through the South, preaching non-violence and shaking up our satisfied way of thinking. Then, at age 16, I saw his work up close and personal.

One night Dr. King led a rally at a black church in downtown Montgomery. My friends and I joined throngs of curiosity seekers across the street. Inside the church, emotions ran high. Dr. King shouted, and the congregation shouted back in response. Outside, the air was charged with a rising tension.

Without warning, groups of white men surrounded the rows of shiny black cars parked in front of the church. Back and forth, back and forth, they rocked the cars until they toppled into deafening sounds of shattered glass and crunching metal. An outburst of cheers arose from the crowd.

Suddenly, the church doors flung open, and a tidal wave of black men and women flooded the sidewalk. Just in the nick of time, sirens squealed our way, and the crowd stampeded. Shoved along, we jumped into the car and sped away with a bite of history.

That was enough history for me, but there was more to come.

Summer of chaos
During the 1960s, my family moved to St. Augustine, Florida, the oldest city in the United States. Because of its historical significance, Dr. King and his followers converged on our sleepy town in 1964. They paraded through the streets and led protests at segregated restaurants. Angry members of the white community mobilized, and soon a series of violent race riots were underway.

That long, hot summer was the first time I heard the words "Ku Klux Klan." Dr. King marched and the Klan marched. Prominent citizens were hidden behind the Klan's white hoods, so said the gossips. Molotov cocktails were propelled through plate glass windows and gunshots sprayed into quiet black neighborhoods. Like molten lava, the tension flowed through our community.

During the height of tension, the Ku Klux Klan conducted a rally in a field outside of town. I was there with hundreds of other "concerned citizens." We mingled among the white-robed hate mongers. But the most chilling sight for me was watching the men torch a wooden cross. I had the feeling that, if given half a chance, many of those Klan members would have gladly hung a black person there to burn.

While King proclaimed, "We shall overcome," I was overcome-by the overwhelming emotion that was generated between the civil rights leaders and their white opponents.

A vessel of love
When King and his cohorts finally left town, we attempted to return to our comfortable status quo. But the nation was in the midst of a rapid transformation. Soon, the Civil Rights Act was enacted, and although it was like having bitter-tasting medicine crammed down our throats, the white citizenry complied.

Then, two decades later, a brown-skinned vessel of God's love came into my life. After a devastating divorce and a sad estrangement from my family, my personal life was in turmoil. That's when Sardie took my hand and said, "You are not alone. We'll be your family from Jesus." And from that day forth, she and Cornelius were.

As the years passed, our bond strengthened and Sardie became one of my dearest friends. Time and time again, her love challenged me to rethink my beliefs. She taught me the value of transparency and consistently modeled Christ's unconditional love.

I slowly began to see that racial prejudice had poisoned my thinking. When I renounced those ugly and sinful ideas, the social and spiritual barriers between Sardie and me were erased. God changed my heart. I was free to look beyond the skin color of other people, liberated to see others as God sees them.

Recently, Sardie and I sat across the table from each other at a supper party honoring my 60th birthday. We laughed, chatted, and had a delightful time, while two generations of my family ate supper with a black person for the first time.

Later Sardie confided, "Honey, it was a miracle for me to be there."

I laughed and said, "You're not kidding!"

In her own gentle way, Sardie spreads love one person at a time. As she often says, "Honey, we're all God's children. Racism and hatred are man's way. Love is God's way."

Bobbe Brooks is a writer living in St. Augustine, Florida.

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