Walking the Weak

This fall has reminded me so much of fire. We built fires, the fall leaves resemble fire, I've even been more apt to smoke from time to time. Sometimes the fire makes more sense than anything. Somewhere, beneath its burning sweet addiction and the way it melts our eyes.
And so I go to it, the fire. I crave it. I arch the back of my tongue to it. I breathe.

I breathe, and so does the fire.

Samantha liked fire too, you could tell. You could tell by the odor of smoke that hung about her after the service. It might have been there before the service too, I had never been close enough to tell, then. Em had invited her to sit with us after she finished her Bo-Jangles, and Samantha had accepted. She didn't sit through the service, more than a couple times she ducked out and returned a few minutes later. But she stayed. I didn't know why at first, even when she was in the service, she seemed to be nodding off.

Afterwards I knew why. She needed a ride to north Durham. I couldn't give her one, I didn't have a car. I stood with her as she tried to find one though. I learned some things about her, bits an pieces. Obviously she was fond if cigarettes, but there was more. She loved Prince, and her family didn't want her...

Her family didn't want her, and neither did we, it seems. What has the church come to? Is Jesus crying up in Heaven? Has the father turned his face away? It is merely stuck in our direction like the smiles on people's faces when they're eager to help the soul, but not the body? Everyone was eager to ask about how she liked the service, but then she mentioned that she needed a ride, and they'd say "Hm.. I can't think of anyone going that direction.." never thinking that they might deviate from their path a little to show compassion on this woman. That didn't seem to really acknowledge her need, really. It made them uncomfortable.

But in America we're supposed to treat everyone equal right?
No, I finally understand. At some point, treating people equally is an insult.

And then my mind switches back to fire.
Perhaps the fire burns all, but it treats everything with distinction. It devours newspaper. Wood takes some time to catch. It squeezes the moisture out of wet logs.

Separate is not equal, no, but, hell, sometimes equal is not even equal.

But the Church, our mission is to love. God is love, right? We're the manifestation of God on earth, right?
Even without that, Jesus gave us the parable rather directly: Matthew 25:42-45

"For I was hungry and you gave me no food, I was thirsty and you gave me no drink, I was a stranger and you did not welcome me, naked and you did not clothe me, sick and in prison and you did not visit me.' Then they also will answer, saying, 'Lord, when did we see you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or naked or sick or in prison, and did not minister to you?' Then he will answer them, saying, 'Truly, I say to you, as you did not do it to one of the least of these, you did not do it to me."

So what's the problem, are we just too damn afraid of being taken advantage of?
Perhaps it's a relevant fear, but I feel as though it's putting the focus in the wrong place. Maybe they'll use all the money for drugs, or alcohol or cigarettes. Maybe we're just giving them a ride to their dealer or pimp. Maybe every bit of assistance we give won't directly save their soul, or even their body, but shouldn't the charity be the focus, not the fear? I'd prefer to take the risk of not being completely helpful, than not helping when I could.

The End of the Walk

Today began grave. I woke with the sun, and a world bathed in light, but hard thoughts found me soon after.

At church this morning there was a homeless woman. She came early, and was sitting in the lobby when my family, also early, came in. My mother was the first to speak to her. She quickly mentioned that she was looking for a meal, and my sister quickly ran to Bo-jangles to get at least something to fill her stomach. A simple gesture. The least you would expect from folks at a church, right?

I won't tell the whole story. It deserves to be told, but there's something else more fresh on my mind. I will say, though, that in the end I was shocked at how little people were willing to help. Perhaps she was only coming to the church to get a meal, and a ride across town. Perhaps she was taking advantage of anyone who would help her. Perhaps she was really, as it appeared, a man dressed in woman's clothes. Should it matter? Aren't the people of God called to care for even the ones who would strike us down? Aren't we a religion based on love?

Everyone thinks someone should do something. No one ever thinks: and that someone is me.

My Grandmother had been visiting my parents for the past week. We took her to the airport this morning, on the way to church. At 90-years old, she still lives by herself, and doesn't seem too bad heath-wise. Nevertheless, her goodbyes seemed more final. She spoke to me last night in a way suggesting last bits of advice. Ninety years old: is that a decent senescence?

My father received a call from the wife of an old boss this evening. The man just died of cancer, his wife was asking for my father's email address to send him details about the memorial service.

I'm still young, young enough that I rarely think too seriously about death. This man my father knew was only a few years older than my father himself. It's not a rare thing. Men die older than women on average, and my parents are slowly greying, active as they are.

But I'm not ready to have those thoughts in relation to my parents. I'm not even legally an adult for another month. Even after that, I'd like my children to meet their grandparents, and marriage is nowhere on the horizon for me. Being the youngest of four children, I feel more fearful of losing them, perhaps. I barely independent, if I am at all. As a Christian, I'm told not to fear death. I don't think I fear my own.

I suppose none of my thoughts are truly coherent enough at the moment to say anything much else here. I really just wanted to post Mr. Thomas' thoughts on death, as related to his father. The little bits of literary knowledge I have collected brought it to mind tonight.



Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Walking to a Beat

Mr. Frost is the kind of poet whose individual lines will sometimes invade my thoughts. Sometimes I'll have the pleasure of remembering these lines wrongly, and discover that his actual words were even more delightful than I had supposed. One such line is that in a poem call 'Choose something like a Star' in which case the line about the star saying merely "I ----." But I always had trouble remembering just what that word was. I do remembering being awed at the simplicity, yet absolution of the statement.

My dear friend Mr. M and I are the kinds of folks who do not do things like go to dances on Halloween. My school assumes that most people are though, and indeed, most are. As such, on Halloween, we had the pleasure of a rather quiet campus to walk about, while everyone else was smashing their bodies against one another in a noisy gymnasium (don't ask me why this phenomenon is popular). Anyhow, October 31st found us sitting on a bench looking up at what would be stars in a sky filled with light pollution. Mr. M finally settled on the moon, who was teasing the idea of being full that night. I, on the other hand, found that the cold of the night was disturbing my moon-gazing abilities. I decided bodyheat was my best bet, and rested my head on his chest.

"I can hear your heart" I realized.

"Oh?" Mr. M said, looking down at last from our other lady friend.

Remembering Mr. Frost, I added, "Yes, it says: 'I beat.'"

The beat of a heart is a wonderful thing. Without a heart that beats, we do not live. The beat of a heart separates life from not life. The beat of a heart is perhaps the significant sound in the world, if you consider it a representation of life.

Before I get ahead of myself, I'm going to go ahead and include that poem by Mr. Frost, so that you may fully appreciate how shamelessly I steal from it later on. Here you are:


'Choose Something Like A Star'

O Star (the fairest one in sight),
We grant your loftiness the right
To some obscurity of cloud --
It will not do to say of night,
Since dark is what brings out your light.
Some mystery becomes the proud.
But to be wholly taciturn
In your reserve is not allowed.

Say something to us we can learn
By heart and when alone repeat.
Say something! And it says "I burn."
But say with what degree of heat.
Talk Fahrenheit, talk Centigrade.
Use language we can comprehend.
Tell us what elements you blend.

It gives us strangely little aid,
But does tell something in the end.
And steadfast as Keats' Eremite,
Not even stooping from its sphere,
It asks a little of us here.
It asks of us a certain height,
So when at times the mob is swayed
To carry praise or blame too far,
We may choose something like a star
To stay our minds on and be staid.


Mr. Frost, no doubt, has a point, and one worth making. In a world a chaos that is ever changing, was comfort must lie in something so constant, something that says only "I burn" (Oh! there's the Word!). Mr. Frost had a point, but I'd like to think that I did also, when I translated Mr. M's heart for him.

I only somewhat knew it at the time, but this meant, of course, I'd have to write a poem defending my theory. To give credit where credit is due, I must admit that Mr. Frost is not the only one who inspired this work. Obviously Mr. M's cardiac organ was not either. I could be convinced to concede that my percussionist, floral friend, Magnolia also had some part, in our conversations, with her arguing the beauty of the mortal, and me the glory of the divine, and her percussion in general. Also, I stole some writing techniques from Mr. Keats (though less shamelessly than I did from poor Mr. Frost).


'Something Like A Man'

I'd call the muse of percussion, if she
Would stay her music but to hear my sounds.
For she whose constant rhythm tides the sea
Is echoed any place where life is found.

In past, I placed my hope in something like a star,
Perceiving only beauty with no end,
Forever burning, and forever far,
Too warm to be strange, too distant t'be friend.

Now I'd put hope in something like a man
Accustomed to death and imperfection.
For man is not mortal if he understands
His tune as both pulse and resurrection.

For though a single stroke could spark defeat,
I asked the heart to speak, it said "I beat."