On an early Tuesday morning in August, I pulled out of our driveway under the Sturgeon full moon and headed to jury duty in downtown Atlanta.
I don’t know if anyone is ever excited about being summoned for jury duty, but I was especially grieved when I got my summons in the mail. One reason being, I would have to navigate downtown Atlanta by myself.
”I’m going to die,” I told Andrew, the week before.
“That is not true,” he said back to me.
”I’m going to get lost,” I said to him, studying the map which the Fulton County Court had sent to me in the mail. Red and yellow arrows pointed to juror parking lots and shuttle pick-ups.
“Yes, you probably will.” He’s been with me long enough to know that this was not false humility.
I complained about my upcoming jury duty to anyone who would listen to me, and even to people who weren’t asking for such personal information, like on group texts, or in school meetings, or to neighbors I met on my morning walks. It was like being in that early stage of pregnancy when you can’t wait to blurt out: “I’m pregnant!” at the beginning of every conversation. It was like that, except it was: “I have jury duty!” and instead of reciprocated excitement, I wanted sympathy and hugs.
But once we had all of our children’s drop-offs and pick-ups secured, and once I was mostly confident about where my GPS was taking me, driving toward Atlanta was surprisingly peaceful. That moon just kept saying: Would you look at me? Would you just look at me?
I fell in line with the marching red glow of brake lights on State Route 400 and really felt a part of something. “We are all going somewhere,” I thought. “We all have important things to do.” I have important things to do every day, I guess, but there was something different about driving toward a city to do them. And all of it under this gorgeous Sturgeon moon, which kept veiling and unveiling itself in dramatic ways behind some wispy clouds. I’ve never thought the Atlanta skyline to be particularly beautiful, but it was really something that morning when it came into view— with its glass and steel towers reflecting the glow of a setting blue moon, and then the rose and tangerine of the burning, rising sun. The MARTA train whizzed by on my left. A skein of geese flew over my car. Even The Varsity’s big red “V” looked downright royal in this early morning glow.
At the courthouse, I was swept up into a line of citizens all clutching the same paper envelope as I had received in the mail. They had parked in the parking lots marked with red arrows and they had ridden the shuttle bus that had been pointed out with a yellow arrow, and they probably also had spouses who believed in them. My own spouse didn’t even look up from his computer when I said I might use the parking garage across the street from the courthouse. That extra $16.00 made me feel like a spendthrift, but I did pack my own PB&J for lunch.
We jurors were shepherded through the security line, and into an elevator, and through the doors of the jury assembly room where nearly two hundred of us put on a white sticker with the word “Juror” printed in black. The assembly room looked like a large airport terminal; Rows and rows of maroon beam-seating filled the room. I passed a group of women who were already getting chatty. I chose a chair against the wall where I could avoid small talk and pulled out a book. Across from me, a middle-aged man in a Trump/Vance t-shirt took a selfie with his phone. He studied the picture, fixed his hair, and then took another. Another potential juror approached a woman a few seats down from me.
”Well, hey Susan!” she said. “How was your summer? Your hair looks great. It’s so good to see you. I just saw my friend Kathy and left my purse with her.”
I looked around the room, not even seeing one familiar face, and she found two? I tried to do the the math. With 1.07 million people in Fulton County, Georgia, how many people would you have to know out of one million to have the chance of knowing two of the 200 randomly selected people in this room? That sort of math freezes my brain, but you’d have to know a lot of people, right?
A woman’s voice came over an intercom system and directed our attention to the TV screens located around the room. We all got quiet and listened to a video explaining our role in democracy. “I know that coming here today was probably inconvenient for you,” a Fulton County judge said to us through the screen, “You likely made a lot of sacrifices.” Yes, I thought. Like that $16.00 I paid to park across the street.
“But many people in the world would die for the type of democracy you are participating in today.” He continued. “We need your help. We are depending on you.”
”Wow,” I texted Andrew. “I feel like I’m about to get on the Justice League ride at Six Flags.”
But that video did its intended work on me, and I was now energized to make way for justice to roll down like waters. I really did have something important to do today as it turned out, and now I only had to wait for my named to be called to do it. A lady stood behind a podium and told us that groups of jurors would be called back as the judges were ready for us. Every twenty minutes or so, she approached the podium and read from a script, naming 12-15 jurors who were being called to a court room. Each time, she would end the script with the line: “If you did not hear your name called, it’s okay.”
I had to be assured that it was “okay” when the girl who knew 30% of Fulton County was called back. I had to be assured it was “okay” when the selfie-man was called to his post. Three hours into my name not being called, I pulled out my PB&J sandwich and took a bite. A man sitting beside me, who—up to this point— had let me read my book in quiet, turned to me and said, “Maybe the rest of us will get dismissed.”
”I hope not.” I said, with a mouth full of sandwich.
No sooner than he wished this on us, my name was called in a group of dismissed jurors. We were released from duty, the lady behind the podium said in a kind voice. But she did not tell us that it was okay.
“Wow, you’re so lucky,” the man said. I didn’t feel lucky. I didn’t do anything important. And what was I going to tell all my friends who had suffered through my moans—those forbearing souls from whom I had dragged out sympathy? I felt like I at least owed them a good story.
”What a waste of the day,” I texted Andrew. He told me I might as well take my time getting home, since we had already arranged our schedules as if I wouldn’t be there, so I decided to make a stop at The High Museum of Art. Our family has an annual pass at The High, but I had never been without my children. In fact, I had never been to any art museum by myself before this day.
I made a beeline for the Impressionist wing, and then had the exhilarating pleasure of standing and staring. I stood in front of Camille Pissaro’s Seated Peasant Woman for a good long while. I didn’t have to worry about where my children’s hands were, or feet were, or how loud their voices were, so I relaxed and leaned in close. I marveled at the tiny, visible strokes—strokes that looked as if they were swimming, seemingly in motion. I leaned back out and took in the colors, the complementary shades all singing in harmony, the luminosity, the intensity of movement behind this pensive girl in a chair.
My friend Ned told me about game he plays with his girls at art museums: Which of these paintings would you steal? The game goes exactly how you think it goes. (Unless you think true theft is involved.)
”This one.” I said to myself. “I would steal this one.”
“Would you look at me?” The seated girl seemed to say. “Would you just look at me?”
And so I did. Closer and closer.
My husband, Andrew, is the head pastor of a little church plant. We are four years into this journey, and while no season of church-planting has been easy, there was a short season that was especially difficult. I try to walk in my neighborhood every day, but when I’m really sad or anxious, my walks tend to get longer. On one particular day, during this particularly difficult season, I was about an hour into my walk and the anxiety was piling higher. The weight was too heavy: Building this church for all the people we love was so hard. It was hard because we loved them. It was hard because we can only be human and we were bumping up against our limitations. Instead of praying, I was making lists in my head: What were all the important things that I needed to do to help build this church for the people I love?
But the Spirit of Jesus, the head of his Church, interrupted my list-making and whispered: I am building this church for you too.
I covered my mouth and let out a relieving sob. Sometimes, we have big, important things to do. Sometimes, the world really does depend on us. But every now and then, the important thing is to be a recipient for a little while, to be in the audience: to stare dropped-jaw at the moon, or to hang on the colors of a portrait someone else painted, or even to watch someone do our job better than we could do it.
Sometimes I just need to look at the Church; I mean, really, just look at her. If I did, I would see strokes there not of my own hand. And that would be a very good thing. Because sometimes, if your name doesn’t get called, it’s going to be okay.
And what about you, Reader? Do you have a story about jury duty, or an art museum, or a time when you weren’t as important as you thought you were? I would love to hear about it in the comments.
A beautiful piece. I just returned from a trip to England where we saw beautiful art, and also my travelling companion and I finally confessed to each other that we really really really like the gift shops in art galleries. Maybe even more than the gallery sometimes. 🤓😬
I loved reading this; I love the way you write. This reminded me of a time when my sister and I visited a local art museum. We were admiring a piece that was an intricate rendering of Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane. There were so many things to look at, we both got up close to take it all in. Suddenly behind us was someone from security telling us we were setting off an alarm because we were getting too close to the artwork. We were fine art admirers one minute and museum vandals the next!