It was Wednesday, August 12, and my daughter Elly and I were on the last couple of legs of our cross country odyssey. We were heading into St. Louis where I had served 7 years as an associate pastor in North St. Louis County. More to the point, we were heading to Ferguson for lunch.
Yes, Ferguson. Shootings. Protests. Riots. Lootings. Ferguson.
We were going to eat lunch in Ferguson, because that’s where my husband and I bought our first house. Elly was just months old. Our neighbors welcomed us. We ate at the coffee shop, and visited the library across the street, and played at the city park within walking distance. Elly learned how to ride a bike in Ferguson. We brought Karl home from the hospital to our house in Ferguson.
Ferguson was home, and that’s where I wanted to eat lunch at the Whistle Stop Cafe.
Elly, however, did not.
