Because I’m in Charleston watching these protests unfold, thought I’d share perhaps the most profund and graceful thing that’s happened in my life (outside of my kids being born).

June 15, 2015 the racist, hate-filled murders of innocent african americans occurred in the basement of Mother Emanuel Church in downtown Charleston. Unfathomable and dispicable violence. 9 victims.

We visit the Charleston beach (IOP) for the 4th of July each year. I watched news coverage of the massacre at home in Louisville that night, and amidst sorrow I couldn’t help wondering if we were going to be traveling to a place of major civil/racial unrest, understandably so.

The time for our trip came, and services had restarted at Mother Emanuel, though grieving obviously continued. I could only imagine how angry and resentful the AME community might be. Again, understandably. I would have been, though I couldn’t possibly understand it

from their perspective. My wife and I had seen on the news that people had shown the congregation love and support in the form of flowers and cards laid along the street out front of the church. So on our way out of town (Sunday July 11), we decided to lay flowers at AME.

We parked and carried our then 2 year old daughter with us. It was Sunday morning and they were welcoming their worshipers to service. We felt awkward and sheepish as we walked up to drop the modest bouquet we’d found along the way there.

An usher instantly spotted us. A tall and imposing man, dressed in a suit, made his way towards some sunburnt young white parents dressed for a 10 hour car ride home with a toddler. He was fixated on us and I was embarrassed for ourselves.

We had the gall and privilege to believe that it was appropriate for us to show up on a Sunday morning and offer flowers like it was anything but a token, silly gesture. At the very place where weeks before a white person had entered THEIR place of worship and shot THEIR people.

I awaited the judgment and scorn. However, he smiled as warmly as he could and placed his hands on our shoulders. He thanked us profusely. Blessed us loudly. And then he said the chapel was full but if we went to the doors on the left side we could worship in the basement.

My wife and I were stunned. We had no intention of attending their service. Frankly, it never crossed our minds. We politely declined feeling it wasn’t right. How could we be welcomed there? And somcompletely underdressed to the point of irreverance?

The man insisted. We were welcomed, and the church loved us, he said. We walked to the basement door and another gentleman pointed to two chairs in the middle of the room where we could sit. We were now the only white people in this crowded room.

As we sat, I then realized where we were. We were sitting in the very room where weeks before Dylan Roof had stormed in and commited his heinous act. Not a cross eye, stare, or bad look had come from anyone as we walked right in and took our seats. I teared up. It was surreal.

We sat in that room and watched the service on a TV with profoundly strong and graceful people that left my wife and I overwhelmed with the sense of love and forgiveness. We’ll never forget it.

I honestly don’t know how they’ve put up with the injustices in this country for so long, but what we experienced that day must somehow have something to do with it. What a lesson.

African Americans in this country deserve and command decency and justice. They’re the most deserving of it.