Jude 3 Project

Most advice about healing pictures one wound and a quiet tomorrow. When the next blow lands before the last one has closed, that picture stops helping and starts accusing. So how do you keep walking with God while racial trauma keeps coming? The practice built here is small enough to keep. Once a week, pray an honest lament in the shape Scripture gives it, bring it to one or two people who are safe enough, and attach one small act of care. You can work through these pages alone in about an hour, or with a group over one long session or two shorter ones. Every invitation to speak is optional. Writing something down and keeping it to yourself counts.

Start with the timeline you have been using

In a conversation with therapist and author Sheila Wise Rowe, Lisa Fields named the flaw in most talk about healing. It imagines a single event that you then work through, and it comes “with the assumption that nothing’s gonna happen tomorrow.” Rowe described racial trauma differently. In her account it is interpersonal, and also generational and systemic. It is made of blatant acts and of small slights that seem minor alone but add up over time. Her explanation for why processing feels harder now was blunt: “literally every day there’s some new assault.”

Take two minutes with a pen. Write down the healing timeline you have been holding yourself to, even if you have never said it aloud. It might sound like by now I should be past this or if I were stronger this would not still bother me. Then ask whether that timeline assumes the blows have stopped. If you are in a group, anyone who wants to may say where their timeline came from. Keep the page. You will need it at the end.

Before you choose anyone: what if people are where you got hurt?

A practice that depends on other people has to face this first. Lisa Fields raised it herself. Fear gets in the way of community: fear that someone will tell your business, fear of being hurt again, and for many people old family wounds that taught them to stay guarded.

Rowe did not dismiss the fear. She changed the goal. She no longer uses the word safe, because “no place is a hundred percent safe.” She looks for spaces that are safe enough. She also changed the pace, recommending “slowly entering in versus you jumping in,” while watching how people treat one another and how they treat you. And she asked for a discipline of honest sight: “it’s really being more attentive, not what you hope it would be, but what actually is it.”

Turn that last line into an exercise. Write one or two names, people or small groups you might trust a little. Next to each, write only what you have actually seen. How do they talk about people who are not in the room? What did they do the last time you told them something small? Now cross out anything that is really a hope or a fear rather than an observation. What remains is your evidence, and it may be thinner than you expected.

If the list is empty, Rowe’s counsel was to pray for God to show you where your community is and to stay alert to where the Holy Spirit may be shedding light on a path. She expected that the answer might be a smaller group than you imagined. She also refused the reflex that sends hurt people back to whoever hurt them. Sometimes healing with family does not happen, she said, and sometimes returning is not even safe. If someone in your home is harming you, the National Domestic Violence Hotline is 1-800-799-7233.

Rowe practiced therapy for many years, and she spoke of the need for “safe enough spaces to actually begin to process” what has happened to us. A licensed counselor can be one of those spaces, and for some readers the first one. Seeking that help sits comfortably beside everything else here.

She admitted the cost too: “doing it and actually crying with someone who cares about you and loves you is scary.” Nothing below asks you to stop being afraid. It asks for one small step you have observed your way into.

Read a prayer that was prayed daily

Psalm 13 is a lament, a poem spoken to God rather than about him. Open to Psalm 13:1-2 and read those verses aloud twice, slowly. The psalmist asks how long God will forget him and hide his face, how long he must wrestle in his own soul with sorrow, and how long his enemy will be exalted over him.

Observe before you interpret. Count the times he asks how long. Find the word daily in verse 2 and circle it. Notice the tense. The sorrow is not a memory he is processing. It is in his heart every day, and the enemy is exalted now. This prayer was written for the condition Rowe describes.

Then watch the movement. In verses 3-4 he asks God to consider him, hear him and lighten his eyes, and he says he fears being overcome. In verses 5-6 the tone turns: “But I have trusted in thy mercy; my heart shall rejoice in thy salvation. I will sing unto the LORD, because he hath dealt bountifully with me.” (Psalm 13:5-6)

The poem never reports that the enemy is gone. Some readers think an answer came between verse 4 and verse 5. Others read the turn as trust chosen while nothing outward had changed. The text does not settle it. What it does give you is a pattern of complaint, request and trust, all addressed to God in one short prayer, with no promise attached about when the trouble ends.

Write your own version of each movement, a sentence or two apiece:

How long: the honest version, not the one you would say in a church lobby. Name what is still open and what landed on top of it.
Request: what you are actually asking God for this week, even if it is only strength to get out of bed.
Trust: a sentence you can say truthfully today. If you cannot write one yet, leave the line blank.

A blank line is allowed. Rowe said that “we can honestly go to God and say, I’m not ready.” Psalm 56:8 gives that honesty a picture: “put thou my tears into thy bottle: are they not in thy book?” It is poetic imagery, not a claim about a literal container, and it shows a God who keeps track of grief instead of hurrying past it.

For discussion: Psalm 13 moves to trust without saying the trouble ended. Does that make it more usable for you, or harder to pray?

From my soul to one another

Psalm 13 is spoken in the singular: my soul, my heart, mine enemy. Now read two lines Paul wrote to whole congregations. Romans 12:15 says, “Rejoice with them that do rejoice, and weep with them that weep.” Galatians 6:2 says, “Bear ye one another’s burdens, and so fulfil the law of Christ.”

Do a short comparison on paper. For each of the three passages, write who is weeping or carrying, and who is being asked to act. In Psalm 13 the sufferer prays and no one else appears. In Romans 12:15 the command falls on the people who are not the ones weeping. They are told to join the grief, and nothing in the verse tells the grieving person to recover first. In Galatians 6:2 the burden itself moves between people. The psalm is a prayer that describes; Paul’s lines are commands to a church.

Test that against your own situation. If you are the one weeping, these verses place an obligation on the people around you, not a demand on you to cheer up. If you are the one listening, Romans 12:15 asks you to weep, which is different from advising, correcting or quoting a verse back. Which of those roles do you find harder?

Rowe pushed in the same direction. She described how much many of us have bought into living as an island of me, my household and my house, and set it against the community she grew up in, where care reached past family to the people on the block. “We have got to lean back into that,” she said, and she framed the question collectively: “What do we need to do collectively to support each other and care for each other?” Her examples were small on purpose: a plate of food for a hungry stranger, sugar for a neighbor, an hour of childcare so a single mother can get to the store. A rhythm that depends on heroic capacity collapses in the first bad week. One built from contributions this size can last a long season.

The weekly table

Pick a fixed time each week, thirty or forty minutes, with one or two people from your list. A kitchen table, a phone call or a walk all work. If you have no one yet, keep the same time alone with God and make the prayer for community part of it.

Open with the psalm. Sit in silence for two minutes, then read Psalm 13 aloud, trading verses if there are several of you. Read slowly enough that daily lands.

Then lament and look. Each person may offer one sentence of how long, naming what weighed on them this week. Anyone can pass, any week, without explaining. The others follow Romans 12:15 literally. They do not fix, advise or answer with a verse, and a simple thank you is enough. After everyone has spoken or passed, go around once more for something good. Rowe believes that “God is giving nuggets of hope, nuggets of joy, of peace every single day,” often in ordinary places like a coffee line or a playground. An empty answer is allowed. Do not manufacture one. The two rounds sit side by side because Rowe insisted that “we don’t dishonor the trauma and the horrific things that are happening by also celebrating.” Of lament and celebration, she said, “We pray about both of those things.”

Narrow to one thing. Rowe described the flood of crises as feeling “like drinking from a fire hose,” and named the question to bring to God: “What is the Lord wanting you to do and for you to fix on?” Each person names one concern to carry in prayer and action this week, and the others pray briefly for it. She noticed that the onslaught can make it feel as if “you don’t even have time to pray about any of it.” Choosing one thing gives prayer room again. To protect that room during the week, set a window for news and feeds. Lisa Fields put the reason plainly: “if everything’s an emergency, nothing’s an emergency.”

Close with care. Before you leave, each person names one concrete act of care for someone, in the group or near it, within the means they actually have. Rowe’s counsel about where to begin was simple: “Let’s just start there. That’s a little thing that you can do.”

For discussion: What keeps you from choosing one thing? Guilt, pressure from others, fear of missing something, or something else? And do lament and celebration feel like rivals to you, or can you imagine praying both in one week?

If you host the table, your job is to keep it honest and unhurried, not to repair anyone. Silence is fine. A comforting answer offered too soon can land as dismissal. If someone says the hopelessness has turned into thoughts of ending their life, stop the practice and stay with them. Take it seriously, help them call or text 988, the Suicide and Crisis Lifeline, and connect them with a pastor or licensed counselor. The table is a place of mutual care, not a substitute for clinical help.

After four weeks

Take out the page from the beginning. Read the old timeline and your first how long, then write a few lines in answer to three questions. Who turned out to be safe enough, and what did you observe that told you so? Which small good things did you almost scroll past? Did narrowing to one thing make prayer easier, harder, or no different?