From “What Makes You Come Alive: A Spiritual Walk with Howard Thurman” by Lerita Coleman Brown
Don’t ask what the world needs. Ask what makes you come alive and go do that, because what the world needs is more people who have come alive.
-Howard Thurman
My friend Harriet and I trudge across the clay dirt that leads to the grounds of the Wild Goose Festival, an outdoor gathering of “Spirit, Justice, Music and Art” in the North Carolina mountains. At the entrance we notice two dirt roads that meet to form a circle around the main stage and that rapidly fill with pedestrian traffic. Dusty in the mornings and muddy after a daily afternoon rain, the path can be treacherous. Along one side of the path, vendors sell food, jewelry, pottery, and clothes. Dotted on the other side sit bannered tables representing various nonprofit organizations and seminary programs, and volunteers offer grocery tote bags, and pamphlets to promote their causes. Everywhere large oak and birch trees give shade to the audiences that fan out in front of tented stages.
It is 2017, and as two African American women, Harriet and I don’t quite know what to expect from the weekend. The day before, I presented a brief talk on Howard THurman as part of a pre-festival event. Surprised by the large, mostly white audience that gathered in an old revival-style tent on the banks of the shimmering French Broad River, I was even more astonished by the crowd who thronged the stage afterward. Where could they find out more about this Howard THurman? Why had they never heard of him?
Now as Harriet and I stand in the sweltering July heat, a woman rolls up in a golf cart shuttle designed to help festivalgoers get around the grounds. “You ladies need a ride somewhere?” she inquires.
“No, thanks,” I reply. We chat a bit, and we learn the woman’s name is Bec. I tell her about the talk on Howard Thurman I gave yesterday, and that I will give another presentation about Thurman and the mystical heart of nonviolence in an hour. The library tent is not far from here, though, I say, so we can walk. Bec signals to us to stay put, then speeds away on her golf cart and into the campground.
A few minutes later she returns, and on the seat of the golf cart beside her sits an icon-style painting of Howard Thurman. I peer at the pointed canvas into the face of Howard Thurman as he appears on the cover of his book Meditations of the Heart. He wears a gray ministerial robe with a white shirt and royal blue tie. A thin layer of jet-black hair crowns his head above a smooth face, and deep folds of wisdom frame his classic moustache. The artist has captured his penetrating eyes with startling precision. Circling his head, a rainbow of yellow, green, pink, and red half-moon swirls forms a halo of sorts. At the button of the portrait, a pink background filled with green strokes creates a forest scene, with hints of trees and birds.
Bec tells us she painted it herself, and she thrusts the painting into my hands. “Here. This is for you.”
I stand there, dumbfounded. Who is this woman? Why has she painted a portrait of Howard Thurman – and why has she brought it with her to this campground in North Carolina?
Bec putters off in her golf cart before I can ask her all my questions. Harriet and I stand there on the path for a moment, marveling at the icon of Thurman in my hands. I know a bit about the folklore surrounding the Wild Goose Festival – the talk that a holy coincidence could happen at any moment. In Celtic spirituality, geese represent the Holy Spirit, and I find that in my experience as a spiritual director and companion, Spirit orchestrates events without warning. Even with that awareness, I remain incredulous. Is this a coincidence, or is this some manifestation of the spirit of Howard Thurman? If the latter, what does he want?
I look more closely at the painting of “Saint Howard Thurman,” initialed by Bec. I still can’t fathom why Bec painted this portrait, or why we happened to cross paths that morning. Harriet and I shake our heads and smile. Then we walk together toward my next event about Thurman, under the broad canopy of trees.