As news about Richmond floods the airways, memories rise within me. I feel for Richmond, its leaders and for those who have worked for nearly fifty years to bring healing to the wounds now exposed.

In 1969, I left a small town near Baltimore to attend Westhampton College. After college, I worked in the city for five years. Years later, after I separated from my husband. I visited my dear friend, Clieland Donnan. Clieland listened as I cried and raged. She sent me to Richmond Hill, a newly-formed retreat center. Set in a walled garden on a prominent hill above the James River in Richmond's east end, the compound served as a hospital during the Civil War and then as a convent, Mary Mount.

The edges of my grief softened as I gardened there. A row of Deodar cedars lifted their limbs gracefully; a grotto in the corner of the property enfolded me; a fish pool calmed me. Spiritual Director Ben Campbell listened to me. Had I seen Mary, for whom the hill was named, he asked.

Richmond Hill held prayer services morning, noon and night. All were welcome. People filed into the small, simple chapel and sat quietly. Some wept openly; some looked defeated; others angry. The service opened and closed with prayer. In every service, the leader prayed for healing for Richmond and its surrounding counties and for the community's leaders by name. They are still praying—at 7:00 a.m., noon and 6:00 p.m. Now I plan to pray in spirit with them, honoring the heritage I share.

In the summer of my junior year, crazy in love, I stayed in Richmond, got a job in a florist shop and rented a room at 98 Libbie Avenue, home of Clieland Donnan. She lived in the fashionable west-end and ran the Cotillion for teens and pre-teens for the Richmond elite. Her home was filled with fine furnishings; her heart full of forgiveness after her father refused to let her marry the man she loved; her life filled with grace. She often treated me to dinner as her guest at the prestigious Virginia Country Club. A black woman, Carmen, came once a week and helped her polish her silver, iron her linens and clean her home. She treated Carmen well. I never saw the city's dark side; I did not try to venture there.

Clieland knew the community and its past well. She decided to hold an interracial social event at her home. When I offered to help her, I did not know what courage it took for her, now in her early fifties, to initiate this conversation. Then she worked with others to heal the wounds of the racial divide that course powerfully through the history and mores of this Southern town, its many avenues lined with trees; its medians filled with roses, the fragrance of magnolia and gardenias wafting in spring.

As a young woman, I worked in the prosecutor's office. The only time the District Attorney called me into his office, he asked me about my association with those who were working for change. I affirmed that they were fine people. He said no more. I heard crude sexist comments and innuendos from the staff attorneys. I did not have the courage—or was it the good sense--to confront their sexism directly. I smiled, taking their comments as jokes, imagining that I would have been fired had I challenged them.

I just read an account of what black face and minstrelsy connoted to African Americans. I never saw the ugliness of this racism. I shudder to imagine that anyone was treated with such violence and degradation. I also empathize with the men who grew up in an environment where racist and sexist references were at least accepted, perhaps even an expected part of being in the “club” of privilege.

Did these men, now leaders, play along with the dominant culture? Can I blame them? Can I expect others who bore the brunt of the racism to forgive them? How do we acknowledge our shortcomings? ask for healing? release our rage? None of this is easy, but it is essential. I pray that we may heal.